Faustus
by atheneblue
Summary: The price? Be mine. Body and soul," she explained calmly. "Do you agree?" WJK/R X OC. Rated M for language, sexuality, and a D/s relationship.
1. Chapter 1

"Mrs. Harroway, would you care to step this way, please?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Walter saw Mr. Green leading a woman toward his workstation. The tailor snapped his fingers, and Walter jumped to his feet.

"Walter, kindly take some measurements. I apologize, Mrs. Harroway: my girl is out sick today."

"Not at all, Mr. Green," the woman answered in a low, pleasant voice. "Your young man seems quite capable."

Walter stood without looking up at the customer and pulled the loop of his measuring tape off his neck. "What is the piece, Mr. Green?"

"If you would remove your jacket, Mrs. Harroway. It's, uh, a corset, Walter," Mr. Green said, trying to sound professional. "Are you wearing a girdle, madam?"

Small, slender hands unbuttoned the well-cut suit jacket to reveal an expensive ecru blouse. "I am not," she responded. Walter thought that he could detect a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Then, hip, please, Walter."

The assistant stepped forward, swallowing, and set one end of the tape with his right hand. The woman's left hip was warm under the fabric of her skirt. He could feel the edge of her pelvic bone. With as much care as possible, Walter reached around her waist and drew the tape along the level. She smelled like silk and peaches. His hands met. He took a pencil from over his ear and noted the measurement on a scrap of paper.

"Waist."

Walter repeated his actions around the woman's slender waist. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her chest rise and fall with her breath.

"Ribs."

The customer raised her arms accommodatingly, and Walter wrapped the tape under her bust.

"Please lower your arms," he murmured.

She obeyed. His fingers were now trapped between her upper arm and her breast. He could feel the edge of her brassiere through the silk. He swallowed grimly.

Mr. Green cleared his throat. "Bust."

Walter's nose wrinkled. He stepped around behind the customer. Once again she raised her arms. He had to reach both arms around. It was a difficult proposition: lining up the measuring tape with the fullest part of her small breasts

_nipples_

without touching the fleshy mounds. He leaned forward slightly to peek over her shoulder and check his accuracy. He could see her hair, long and dark, bound up into a neat chignon under a stylish but simple hat.

There were still more measurements. Rib to waistline. Waistline in the back, over the shoulder, to front waistline.

Waistline to sternum. Walter held his hands awkwardly between her breasts. Waistline to décolletage. There was no way for his knuckles _not_ to brush the swell of her breast by the nipple. Waistline to pelvis. Walter's skilled fingers detected a strangely hard and flat stomach.

The bell at the front of the store rang. "Excuse me for just a moment, Mrs. Harroway. Heel to waist, Walter."

He knelt by her dark pumps. "I need you to remove your shoes, ma'am."

The customer looked down at him. He glanced up at her face for the first time. She was not beautiful, but her face was fascinating nevertheless. She was not much older than he. Something in her dark, almond-shaped eyes made him touch her ankle gingerly. "May I?" he asked.

She shifted her weight, permitting him to guide the shoe off of her small foot. Walter watched the seam on her stockings as she stepped onto the cool floor of the shop. He slipped the other pump off. When her stance was even, he rested his right hand by her heel and worked the tape up the side of her leg to her waistline. He found himself staring at the curve of her buttock.

"You have a very light touch," she remarked, "Walter."

He was silent, noting the measurement on his scrap of paper. He touched her ankle gently and helped her back into her shoes, then wrapped his measuring tape around his neck again. Her gloved fingers brushed his hair, so feather-light that he thought he might have imagined it. Walter stood, but did not dare to meet those intense eyes again.

"Thank you, my dear," Mrs. Harroway announced, donning her jacket, and then she was gone.

Mr. Green saw her out and returned to the back of the shop with a fabric swatch in his hand. "It's what she picked out: glove-quality leather. Put that order together and get it to Cassovitz. He knows this kind of thing."

He handed the small square to Walter.

"Says it's for her husband. A surprise," Mr. Green offered, straightening his suit jacket.

"White for a bride," Walter muttered. He rubbed the scrap of soft leather between thumb and forefinger.

The tailor grimaced. "Too bad the guy's dead."

Confused, Walter looked up from his contemplation of the leather.

Green gave him a knowing glance. "It seems she is a merry widow," he sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell echoed hollowly through the brownstone. Walter stood on the stoop, shivering in the January cold. He clutched the package to his chest.

He was momentarily stunned when she opened the door. He had not remembered Mrs. Harroway as so petite. In his mind, she was tall and queenly, her eyes burning down at him from a great height. But the woman standing on the threshold was tiny as a doll and slim as a reed. When he stepped up to enter the house, he practically towered over her. It was not a familiar sensation for him.

"You must be frozen," she fussed, ushering him into a front room where a cheerful fire crackled. Walter stared around him at the books that lined the walls.

"I like to call it 'the library'," Mrs. Harroway explained, in the self-deprecating tones of one supremely confident. She wore a cashmere sweater and tailored slacks. The fire drew reddish-brown highlights from her dark hair. "Now then: let's see what you have for me."

Mutely, Walter held out the package. She took it from him and sat gracefully on the sofa. He shifted from foot to foot as she examined the knot in the twine binding the parcel.

"Would you hand me the letter opener on the desk there, dear?" she asked. Walter bristled slightly at the term of affection. She was perhaps four or five years older than he, yet she was treating him like a child. Perhaps this was how she behaved toward all those she considered inferiors. Sniffing, he retrieved his small pocketknife and flipped it open.

"Do you like to read, Walter?" Mrs. Harroway inquired while he cut the string.

He nodded brusquely.

She smiled and slipped one small finger under a flap of the parcel's wrapping. "I thought I recognized the look of a fellow bibliophile." Her eyes contained no challenge as she regarded him, and yet he felt that he was being assessed. "What sort of books do you like to read?"

Walter shrugged.

She pulled the paper gently from the package and stared at the shirt box contained inside, cocking her head thoughtfully. Her eyes slid up to meet his. Holding his gaze, she removed the top of the box and caressed the tissue paper contained inside. "Mysteries?" she prodded. "Science? Swashbuckling pirates and deadly gunslingers?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Philosophy," he corrected.

She narrowed her dark eyes at him and pursed her lips. "Spinoza?" she ventured. "Locke?"

"Marcus Aurelius. Hobbes. Kant." He looked around the room boldly. "I am reading Aquinas now."

"Religious, are you?" she asked softly.

Walter's eyebrows twitched. "No, ma'am," he responded emphatically.

The corner of her mouth curled upward in a tiny smile. She looked down at the package in her lap and took a deep breath. Her fingers parted the tissue lovingly. Goosebumps rose on Walter's flesh when she stroked the white leather contained inside. Mrs. Harroway removed the corset and held it up admiringly.

"You realize that I shall have to try it on."

"All the measurements should be correct, ma'am," he said quickly.

"Still..." she murmured.

Walter glared at her warily.

"Shall we lay a wager on it?" Mrs. Harroway laid the corset carefully in its box and rose.

"I beg your pardon?"

She held out her right hand, curling her left arm behind her back. "If I can make you cry 'uncle', with only one hand, then you will stay and help me try on my corset. If not, I will give you a ridiculously large gratuity and send you on your way."

He snorted derisively.

"Humor me, won't you, Walter?" she requested in a voice sweet as honey.

Rolling his eyes, the tailor's assistant held out his right hand.

"You are left-handed, yes? Do me the courtesy of offering your dominant hand."

Walter stuffed his right hand in his pocket and proffered his left.

Smiling, the woman grabbed the meaty part of his thumb and torqued his wrist outward, twisting his entire arm over and to the left. Walter reacted by curling down and trying to straighten his elbow. The pressure did not abate; in fact, it grew as Mrs. Harroway rotated his hand further. He was certain that one of the bones in his forearm would snap. He strained against her.

"Struggling will not help," she commented. "The only escape is a sacrifice throw. You must fling yourself to the ground."

He stared up at her incredulously.

"Do you submit?"

He gritted his teeth as she applied more force.

"Do you submit?"

"Yes!" he snarled. She released him, and he backed away, rubbing his wrist. "How did you do that?"

Mrs. Harroway regarded him calmly. She appeared in no way fatigued or flustered. "It is a wristlock. An experienced judo practitioner can lock any joint on the human body, using the opponent's own strength against him."

"Teach me," Walter growled.

She seemed taken aback. "Why?"

His face told her nothing. "Teach me."

She eyed him appraisingly. "Very well, Walter," she concluded. "I will teach you what I know. But we must settle upon the price."

"The price?" he asked warily.

She arched a slender eyebrow. "Would you value anything I offered to you at no cost? Would you even trust it?"

He considered the issue seriously for a moment, then shook his head.

"I do not ask for money, dear. Don't worry on that count. We shall work for three hours a week. Is that acceptable?"

He nodded.

"In that case, I shall expect you to be mine for another two hours each week."

"To...?"

"Be mine," she explained calmly. "Body and soul. I will do with you as I wish. At any time you may call a halt to proceedings, but, if this should occur, our arrangement will be at an end. Do you agree?"

"I do _not_!" he exclaimed, brimming with outrage.

"Perhaps I should be less cryptic. The situations that I...envision...may involve discomfort for you, even pain. Perhaps great pain. Alternatively, they may bring you pleasure. Ecstasy. Have you ever experienced ecstasy, Walter?"

He glared at her, but he made no move to leave.

She smiled wryly. "On the other hand, you may simply experience boredom. But the one thing I will never do is _harm_ you. Your wellbeing will be my greatest concern. This I swear."


	3. Chapter 3

"Take a moment to consider your answer, naturally. But, in the meantime, there is the small matter of my fitting. We had a wager, did we not?"

Walter wiped a hand over his face. He nodded slowly.

"Upstairs, then."

Mrs. Harroway walked to the hall door, glancing over her shoulder at him. She caught the look on his face.

"I have a full-length mirror up there," she reassured him. "Leave your coat and hat."

Walter followed her into the hallway. He removed his coat and hung it on the coat-tree. He placed his fedora atop it. Gritting his teeth, he trailed her up the stairs. The swaying of her hips attracted his gaze, but he made himself look away. She led him along the upstairs corridor into a sitting room, which opened into the master bedroom. Walter hung back. Fortunately, Mrs. Harroway did not intend for him to penetrate further.

"I'll just be a moment," she said, entering the bedroom and shutting the communicating door behind her.

Walter examined his surroundings. Like the rest of the house, the sitting room was furnished simply but expensively: Persian rugs, watered-silk upholstery. Mrs. Harroway's tastes (or perhaps those of her late husband) apparently tended toward the classical, with an art deco influence. In the corner, a small reproduction Aphrodite covered her marble pudenda as she emerged from her bath.

On the side table next to a chaise rested a worn book. One eye on the bedroom door, Walter leaned over to peer at the title: Venus in Furs. Curious, he picked it up and flipped a few pages, his eye running over the preface:

"However, it is well to remember that nature is neither good nor bad, neither altruistic nor egoistic, and that it operates through the human psyche as well as through crystals and plants and animals with the same inexorable laws...The reader who will approach the book from this angle and who will honestly put aside moral prejudices and prepossessions will come away from the perusal of this book with a deeper understanding of this poor miserable soul of ours and a light will be cast into dark places that lie latent in all of us."

He turned a few more leaves and read:

"To love, to be loved, what happiness! And yet how the glamour of this pales in comparison with the tormenting bliss of worshipping a woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant who treads us pitilessly underfoot. Even Samson, the hero, the giant, again put himself into the hands of Delilah, even after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the Philistines bound him and put out his eyes which until the very end he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love, upon the beautiful betrayer.

And if nature triumphs in us so that we give our whole glowing, passionate devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears to us as something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness a sin which we must expiate."

The door to the bedroom clicked. Startled, Walter jumped back and dumped the book clumsily onto the table. Mrs. Harroway's almond-shaped eyes carried a trace of amusement as she looked from the novel to him. She stepped fully into the room. Barefoot like a maiden, she wore white silk pajama bottoms. They hung in such a way against her hips and buttocks that Walter knew she wore no underthings. The corset embraced her torso, thrusting her full breasts upward. The skin of her bare arms and shoulders was fair and smooth; the juxtaposition of stark white leather and creamy flesh mesmerized him. The rill of her clavicle looked delicious.

She positioned herself in front of the mirror and traced a half-piroutte, turning away. Two sets of laces trailed down: one from the middle of her back, the other from just above the curve of her rump at the bottom of the corset.

"Do me up, dear."

Cautiously, Walter approached her. The scent of leather reached his nostrils. He grasped the top set of laces in each hand. She held the busk in front steady while he dragged the strings through their eyelets. He was vaguely aware that she was watching his face in the mirror. He pulled the laces back, and her body rocked forward slightly to compensate.

Mrs. Harroway scoffed. "Good heavens, tighter!"

Biting his tongue, Walter yanked the laces forcefully. Again she swayed forward. In the mirror, he saw her eyes slide close and a slow smile creep across her lips. He tied off that set of laces and moved down to the other. Her skin was redolent with that peach fragrance he had noticed at the shop. Careful so as not to touch her buttocks, he pushed lightly on the small of her back to draw the bindings through. This time he brought his strength to bear. Mrs. Harroway sighed with pleasure as the corset compressed her waist. Walter secured the laces.

Her eyes fluttered open to regard herself in the mirror. She turned to examine the effect. Walter saw her sipping shallow breaths into her upper chest. Her bosom rose and fell accordingly. He dragged his eyes away from the enticing sight.

"Yes," Mrs. Harroway pronounced, rotating in the other direction. "Yes, I think this will do quite nicely."

She glided across the room and reclined gracefully on the chaise. Her hands ran over the corset lovingly, stroking the somewhat artificial curves it lent her body.

"It's a lovely piece of craftsmanship," she purred.

"Cassovitz is one of the best men in the city for leather."

"I shall have to use him again." Her dark eyes seemed to caress Walter's body.

"Will that be all, ma'am?" he asked hurriedly.

She ignored his question, instead trailing her fingers over the cover of the book he had been perusing. "People tend to have strong reactions to this text," she explained. "It treats ethics and morality in an entirely original manner, although some have compared its philosophy to that of de Sade. It's the story of a young man who surrenders himself to the woman he loves because he feels a strong compulsion to serve as her slave. He has, you see, always been fascinated by women with power."

Opening the book, Mrs. Harroway read aloud from a marked passage:

"I have two ideals of woman. If I cannot obtain the one that is noble and simple, the woman who will faithfully and truly share my life, well then I don't want anything half-way or lukewarm. Then I would rather be subject to a woman without virtue, fidelity, or pity. Such a woman in her magnificent selfishness is likewise an ideal. If I am not permitted to enjoy the happiness of love, fully and wholly, I want to taste its pains and torments to the very dregs; I want to be maltreated and betrayed by the woman I love, and the more cruelly the better. This too is a luxury."

Despite himself, Walter was intrigued by the logical conundrum posed in these lines. "Suffering, a luxury? I don't see that," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Do you not? Perhaps you would care to read Masoch's argument in full?"

Mrs. Harroway proffered the book with a muscular arm. He eyed the object as if it might burn his hand. An indulgent smile curved her lips.

"There are not many in circulation. You will not easily find it elsewhere."

Walter bit his lip, then reached for the book.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed. "A discussion of Masoch's ethics will comprise the backbone of our first session."

He opened his mouth preparatory to speaking.

"Eight in the evening on Monday, I think, for the first lesson," Mrs. Harroway said, interrupting. "I'm speaking of the judo, naturally. We shan't begin the other until Tuesday."

His eyes narrowed. His hands clenched Venus in Furs, white-knuckled.

"Do you consent?" she asked.

He held her measured gaze for a long moment. At last he nodded curtly.

"Say it."

"I consent."

Mrs. Harroway grinned in such a way that Walter was reminded suddenly of a crocodile. Once again she held out her lovely arm, offering her hand.

"It's a deal," she confirmed, and they shook on it.

*****

A/N: In this and later chapters, Walter and Mrs. H. will read selections from Venus in Furs, written by Ritter von Leopold Sacher-Masoch in 1870. The edition from which I quote was translated into English by Fernanda Savage and is available online at Project Gutenberg. Discerning readers will notice that Sacher-Masoch has lent his name to the word describing one who enjoys suffering.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yay, plot development! Yeah. It gets saucier next chap.

*****

Walter took another bite of his sandwich and stared at the book. It sat like a diabolic centerpiece on his kitchen table. The plain leather cover, with that oddly sensual title stamped into it, seemed to mock him.

Venus in Furs.

He chewed.

What did Mrs. Harroway have planned for him? And how could it possibly involve a critical discussion of this book?

Walter refused to allow his mind to examine the potentialities. He polished off his dinner and cleaned up the kitchen. Yet his focus was transfixed by the book on the table, even as he scrubbed plate and knife in the sink. Sighing, Walter wiped his hands on a dishtowel, then rummaged in the junk drawer for a pen. He went to his bookshelf and selected a composition book. At last he resumed his place at the table.

His foot tapped nervously. He ran a hand through his unruly red hair.

"For Christ's sake," he muttered and grabbed the book. Flipping it open with more force than necessary, he began to read. He swore to himself that this would be an intellectual exercise, nothing more.

It was a strange beginning, but he steeled himself to follow the story wherever it flowed. It grew, however, curioser and curioser as he proceeded. At last he arrived at the speaker's description of his paramour:

"She is said to be really beautiful, this widow, still very young, twenty-four at the most, and very rich."

Would he call Mrs. Harroway "really beautiful"? Young and rich, certainly. But very beautiful? Did she believe herself to be so?

Chuckling, he returned to the narrative.

Ninety minutes later, he sat back in his chair. The words on the page pierced him:

"As a little boy I was mysteriously shy before women, which really was only an expression of an inordinate interest in them."

_No, Mrs. Harroway. You are not beautiful. _

_Why did you give me this damn book?_

Worrying the inside of his cheek, Walter read on.

"To me, the maturing youth, love for women seemed something especially base and unbeautiful, for it showed itself to me first in all its commonness. I avoided all contact with the fair sex...My Cato-like austerity, my shyness before woman, was nothing but an excessive feeling for beauty. In my imagination sensuality became a sort of cult. I took an oath to myself that I would not squander its holy wealth upon any ordinary person, but I would reserve it for an ideal woman, if possible for the goddess of love herself."

Walter pushed the book away. He glanced down at the composition book, in which he had not made a single notation. Standing up, he began to pace. After a few minutes, however, the novel called him back. He sat and grimly persevered.

As he read, the image of Mrs. Harroway in her white leather corset plagued his mind. Despite himself, Walter began to feel empathy for the speaker. The character's desires, which had seemed at first blush twisted, now rang of truth.

It was Mrs. Harroway's voice Walter heard speaking these lines:

"I can see that you are more than an ordinary dreamer, you don't remain far in arrears of your dreams; you are the sort of man who is ready to carry his dreams into effect, no matter how mad they are. I confess, I like this; it impresses me. There is strength in this, and strength is the only thing one respects. I actually believe that under unusual circumstances, in a period of great deeds, what seems to be your weakness would reveal itself as extraordinary power."

Walter dragged his arm across the table, knocking novel, composition book and pen onto the floor.

It was hopeless.

He dressed and went out. Rorschach would make an early appearance this night.

*****

At precisely eight on Monday night, Mrs. Harroway greeted Walter wearing a pair of loose white trousers and a belted white jacket over a men's undershirt. She was barefoot, and her dark hair was plaited down her back. All in all, she looked far younger than her true age.

"I've taken the liberty of selecting a _gi_ for you," she said breezily, handing him a folded pile of white cloth. "I think it should fit."

Walter emerged from the hall bathroom, feeling oddly uncomfortable in clothes that were clearly meant to ensure comfort.

"I think the pants are too short," he muttered, staring down at his bony ankles.

Mrs. Harroway shook her head. "They're just right." She indicated her own slim ankles, which protruded a few inches from the lower hem of her trousers.

Walter followed her into the basement level of her brownstone. There were two doors at the bottom of the steps.

_The lady or the tiger?_ he wondered.

They passed through the door on the right, entering into a large, open room with mirrored walls and padded floors. It reminded Walter of a boxing gym.

"This is my dojo," Mrs. Harroway explained. "This is where I train judo."

He fought to keep his eyebrows from popping up.

"Judo is a Japanese art, Walter, and the Japanese consider respect to be a very important element of their culture. One refers respectfully to their judo instructor as _sensei_."

"Yes, _sensei_," he responded, repeating the unfamiliar term carefully.

"Very good, Walter. Now, precept number one in my dojo..." She raised one small finger. "Weakness is strength. What does that mean?"

"Use the opponent's strength against him."

Mrs. Harroway looked down her nose at him meaningfully.

"_Sensei_," he added quickly. "Use the opponent's strength against him, _sensei_."

"Exactly so, Walter. Therefore we shall begin our search for strength with an exploration of weakness. The wrist lock I demonstrated the other night – do you recall the escape?"

"A fall, _sensei_."

She nodded. "Falls, then."

Walter had never trained his body to move in the manner she taught him that night, but he immediately grasped its application to fighting. He launched himself willingly into the falls, without fear or hesitation. Mrs. Harroway praised his eagerness, then pushed him harder, pressing him to test his battered body. He met each of her challenges determinedly and was dismayed to find that the time had passed so quickly. He thanked her honestly at the door, the _gi_ a tight-rolled bundle clutched under his coated arm.

"I have given you an hour, Walter," she said quietly, a smile whispering across her face. "Tomorrow you shall give me an hour."

The redhead shivered as he trudged off into the winter night.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Quotes, again, from Venus in Furs. I do not own the character of Walter Kovacs.

*****

"A beautiful woman with a radiant smile upon her face, with abundant hair tied into a classical knot, on which white powder lay like a soft hoarfrost, was resting on an ottoman, supported on her left arm. She was nude in her dark furs. Her right hand played with a lash, while her bare foot rested carelessly on a man, lying before her like a slave, like a dog. In the sharply outlined, but well-formed linaments of this man lay brooding melancholy and passionate devotion; he looked up to her with the ecstatic burning eye of a martyr."

As Walter re-read the lines, his body pulsed with unwonted desire. Was it possible that this twisted filth aroused him? He tried to recall the dream that his alarm clock had banished, the dream that had left him with this throbbing erection in the gray light of morning. Why did he now seek out this particular passage? Did the image of Mrs. Harroway's bare skin wrapped in furs

_and white leather shoving her breasts up bringing that look to her eyes moistening her secret flesh_

appeal so greatly to him?

Would she re-enact that scene with him in the role of supplicant? Would he thank her for her condescension and beg for more?

Walter's muscles ached from the punishment of their first judo session the night before; his stomach roiled in dread of their interactions this evening. Nevertheless, his traitor body was aroused. He wanted...

...what? What did he want?

"She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some trifling matter, 'Do you want to be my slave?'"

Walter slammed his fists down on his sore thighs, banishing the thoughts, the words, the images. Mrs. Harroway might own him for one hour today, but he would not let her possess him the rest of the time.

******

For just one second before she opened the door, the image flashed through Walter's mind of Mrs. Harroway greeting him dressed in furs and nothing else, a whip dangling from her slender fingers. It was almost a shock when she appeared in a modest white blouse and black pencil skirt. His face must have registered some of his surprise; the barest hint of a smirk crossed Mrs. Harroway's face as she beckoned him into the house. He hung his coat and hat on the tree.

"Step into the library again, won't you, dear? Yes, by the fire. Let me have a look at you."

Walter stood nervously, fidgeting, while she examined him, head to toe, in the firelight. He stared fixedly at a spot on the carpet. She moved closer to study his face and hair. Her breath tickled his cheek.

"It's lucky you're so fair," she commented, running her knuckles lightly over his evening stubble. "Any darker, and I'd have you shave before our sessions. Do tell me what you think of Herr Masoch."

He blinked at the abrupt change in topic. His mind fumbled for words. "The speaker...he's ill, disturbed. The characters speak of this being a product of our modern lifestyle."

"What a curious element to seize upon. By the by, Walter, in this...incarnation...you shall always address me as 'ma'am', do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

A smile crept across her lips, slow as honey. "Tell me more, dearest."

"Severin feels emasculated by the strictures of society. Ma'am."

"'Emasculated'?" she echoed, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, ma'am. So he chooses to wallow in that subjection, to follow it _ad absurdum_, to idealize it. It ceases to be a social necessity and instead becomes an asocial fantasy."

Mrs. Harroway regarded him in silence for a moment. Then she licked her lips and sat gracefully in the armchair.

"I suppose it's too early in our endeavor to ask you to kneel."

Walter's eyes shot off to the side.

"So you _will_ kneel for me then?"

With all the dignity he could muster, Walter knelt on the Persian rug.

"For the time being, darling, don't sit back. Yes, kneel up, like you're in church." He could almost hear the smile in her voice at these last words. "It may become uncomfortable after a little while. You will tell me if you feel discomfort, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good, darling. I only want you to feel pain that I intend."

Walter ground his jaw.

"Masoch's Severin," she continued, "talks a great deal about emotional pain, but he only mentions physical pain infrequently. You would, I suppose, attribute this to his bourgeois upbringing."

"Perhaps. But I suppose he is also following in the vein of lyric poets such as Petrarch. For them, romantic love means emotional suffering. As far as I know, Masoch is breaking new ground by introducing the physical at all."

"Except for de Sade."

"I haven't read de Sade. Ma'am."

"No, I don't suppose you have, darling." She cocked her head at him. "But you do read poetry?"

Walter nodded.

"You will answer me aloud."

He had not known that a person's voice could be so soft and at the same time so imperious. "Yes, ma'am," he managed, through a dry throat.

"Do you disdain Severin? Do you think him weak? A fool?"

Walter pondered this question for a long moment. He was not sure how she wanted him to answer. It mattered little, however, since he intended to answer what was truly in his heart.

"Masoch quotes Goethe," he began slowly. "'You must be the hammer or the anvil'."

She waited.

"Severin is the anvil," he concluded.

"And what are you, dearest?"

Walter's light brown gaze swung up to meet hers. The firelight flashed in her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her face expressed neither mockery nor anger.

"Remove your jacket," Mrs. Harroway commanded.

Without losing eye contact, Walter took off his coat and threw it on the sofa.

"Tie."

He loosened the knot and pulled the tie over his head. It fell limply to the floor. A log cracked in the fireplace and settled on the grate.

She sat forward, hands clasped in her lap. "Will you do everything I ask of you, Walter?"

"We struck a bargain."

"We did. But you must yield soon."

"I yield everything."

"You yield nothing," she snapped.

Mrs. Harroway rose and paced toward him. Kicking his ankles apart lightly, she stood between his calves. He could feel the heat of her body on his back. With sudden ferocity, she caught his wild red hair in her tiny fist and cranked his head back. She leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Yield before I break you, Walter. Because I will break you."

"I don't understand what you want!" he bellowed.

"Oh, Walter," she purred. "I think you do. There is quite a formidable mind inside this skull."

She tugged on his scalp for emphasis, and he grimaced.

"Not for pride or honor, my dear. For pleasure."

Walter squeezed his eyes shut and ground his jaw. A tear slid from under his lashes. He raised his hands to snatch her fingers away, to throw her across the room.

"Weakness is strength," she whispered, curling her fingers tightly into his hair.

His eyes flew open, and he stared into the fire dazedly. His head felt loose and light, like a balloon on a string. He exhaled. The tension in his muscles drained away. His hands fell limp at his sides. Cautiously, Mrs. Harroway released him and stepped away. Walter sat back on his heels.

"Shirt."

"Yes, ma'am."

With a feeling of infinite calm, Walter undid his shirt slowly, one button at a time. He unfastened the cuffs and shrugged out of the garment. He wore a simple white tee for an undershirt. Mrs. Harroway stood over him for a moment. He waited. At last she walked around him. Out of habit, Walter followed her passage, his eyes tracking her slender ankles in the high-heeled shoes.

"Eyes forward."

"Yes, ma'am."

He gazed into the fire. The crackling flames mesmerized him. Mrs. Harroway paced, but he paid her no attention; she would verbalize anything she needed from him. He found that he was content to wait. A slight tingle of anticipation pulsed in his belly, but there was no fear.

"Undershirt."

"Yes, ma'am."

The fire warmed his pale flesh as he bared his torso.

"Such a strong, virile young man."

Short, neat fingernails grazed his upper back, and he shivered.

"I shall enjoy this, darling."

He heard her heels clicking on the wood floor. Her voice seemed farther away; she was moving toward the door. Walter could not help but sway slightly in that direction.

"But not until Thursday, my dear. Judo tomorrow night. Let yourself out when you are ready."

The hall door clicked shut behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Quotes, again, from Venus in Furs. I do not own the character of Walter Kovacs.

*****

Walter plucked fiercely at the stitches, letting the hem out of the client's pantleg. He examined the chalk line and pinned the fabric up at the new length. Nora's incessant babbling to Gracie at the next work station bothered him during the best of times; today it grated horribly. Nevertheless, he listened in, desperate for any distraction. His mind was running amok with scenarios for tonight's encounter with Mrs. Harroway. The way she had dismissed him on Tuesday still rankled.

On Wednesday evening, however, she had greeted him at the door as pleasantly as if he had never knelt half-naked in her front parlor. He had changed into his _gi_, now beginning to appreciate the strength and flexibility of the garment. Once again they had padded down into the basement and through the door on the right. This time, the tiny woman tested him with a few conditioning exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, stretches. Then they reviewed the falls he had learned on Monday. Pleased with his strength and acumen, Mrs. Harroway taught him the first _kata_, a pattern of stylized movements incorporating the various techniques of judo. Walter found the repetitive movements tiresome; he could not see the purpose.

"And the joint locks?" he had asked.

"Impatient, aren't we?" Mrs. Harroway answered mildly. "Perhaps if you explained to me a little better your interest in judo, I could match your expectations more efficiently."

Walter remained silent.

She cocked her head in amusement, studying him. At last she clapped her hands lightly.

"Well, I don't see any harm in your having a theoretical understanding."

Moving close, she lectured him briefly on the joints of the human body, their strengths and weaknesses. Her fingers probed him gently to illustrate the anatomical points. Walter began to feel that sense of calm acceptance he had experienced on the previous evening flow through him. Her touch did not bother him. Though clinical, it aroused both his mind and his body. Yet this arousal in no way distracted him. He was at once entranced and alert. Mrs. Harroway's lips were full and lovely, but he had no difficulty processing what they said.

"Yes, _sensei_," he would respond when she looked for a sign of his comprehension, and he understood her very well. Soon it came to seem as if the world had always been this way: the warmth of her body, the smell of his sweat, the sound of her voice, the pleasant soreness of his limbs.

"That's enough for tonight, Walter," he heard at last.

He nodded calmly and returned upstairs to change back into his street clothes. Washing his hands in the bathroom sink, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The slackness of his face, coupled with the intensity of his eyes, amazed him. This was the face of a man at peace with his own virtues and faults; this face belonged to a powerful man.

******

Walter resumed his position kneeling on the hearth rug immediately upon entering her library on Thursday night. He did not, however, remove any clothes.

"You _are _a fast learner."

Mrs. Harroway approached him and reached out to stroke his hair. He tensed, recalling the way she had gripped him previously. She soothed him with gentle caresses, her fingers twining softly in his unruly locks. He found himself relaxing under her touch.

_Like a dog_, one part of his mind thought sourly.

"Are you sore this evening, dearest?" she asked solicitously.

Walter was not sure when her pet names for him had ceased to irritate, but now the word 'dearest' plunged him deeper into the calm pool of...

_What? Relaxation? Safety? Adoration?_

He remembered times when he was very young and his mother would sing him to sleep. The emotion that had filled his heart then was very similar to the one that crept through him now. He felt the sudden urge to rest his head on the young woman's hip.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured.

"Any bruises? I'm sure that fair skin of yours bruises so easily." There was something in her tone of a wine connoisseur enjoying a fine merlot.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Show me."

Walter removed his jacket and tie. He unbuttoned his shirt, plagued by the incongruous notion that he was unwrapping a present for her. When Mrs. Harroway took a seat on the sofa in front of him, he realized that she was, in fact, relishing this process. He had never experienced the type of gaze that now bored into him from her dark eyes. He kept his movements slow, teasing her; he found that it pleased him to tantalize her in this way. She licked her lips as he lifted the undershirt over his head.

He did not have to look down to know what she was seeing. A patchwork of bruises covered his shoulders and trailed down the back of his ribcage to his hips; in certain places his skin was red and raw from striking the mat. She did not wince, although her eyes narrowed. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands together in her lap.

"Did you bring the Masoch, by any chance, darling?"

"It's in my coat pocket, ma'am."

Mrs. Harroway inclined her head toward the hallway. Walter rose to his feet and went to fetch the novel. When he returned, he knelt by her, in front of the sofa, staring down at the book on his thighs.

"Did I give you permission to move closer?"

He looked up at her, startled. "No, ma'am."

"Ask permission."

Walter glanced down at the novel, then fixed his eyes on Mrs. Harroway's slim but muscular calves. "May I kneel here, by you, ma'am?"

"Yes." She relaxed, crossing her legs at the knee. Her slender ankle dangled in front of his face. "But remove your shoes and socks."

He complied, shifting his weight from side to side, then sat back on his bare heels.

Mrs. Harroway leaned forward to place her hand on the back of his neck. Her forefinger traced a light pattern on his nape. His eyelids drooped.

"I can't say that I'm sorry to see you so bruised, dearest. For one thing, it proves what a diligent student you are. But it does make me hungry to raise my own welts on that tender, white flesh of yours. And those freckles..." She gave a low, throaty laugh. "I suppose you hate them, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "They're ridiculous."

"They're delicious," she corrected him. "I shall lash you once for each little spot. And kiss you twice."

Walter's eyes went wide with dismay. He was unsure which proposition disturbed him more. He dared not look up to see if she was joking.

"How far are you in the book, darling?"

He swallowed, and admitted, "I've finished it, ma'am."

"You're exceeding my every expectation, beautiful boy."

Utterly disconcerted, he blushed at the endearment.

"Select a passage to read to me. I'd like to hear you read aloud."

Walter opened the book and thumbed through it. It seemed to him that the only quotes he might choose would make his lustful fantasies painfully clear to her.

"I would give you one of your favorites, ma'am," he said, stalling, "but I cannot read your notes."

"I should be surprised indeed if you could read Japanese," she responded with a touch of amusement.

His eye fell on a passage toward the end of the novel.

"Woman," he read, "demands that she can look up to a man, but one like you who voluntarily places his neck under her foot, she uses as a welcome plaything, only to toss it aside when she is tired of it.' 'Try to toss me aside,' I said, jeeringly. 'Some toys are dangerous.'"

Her laughter trilled mockingly in his ear.

"Is that meant to be a warning?" she asked.

Her fingers trailed lingeringly over the top of his spine. The sensation was indescribable. When her nail tickled a particularly tender spot, he gasped. She laughed again and leaned in toward him, uncrossing her knees. Her voice was low and urgent.

"You may walk away at any time. Remember that I have no power over you except that which you give me. You are here because you choose to be here."

Walter stared up at her dark, almond-shaped eyes and felt the awful weight of truth. The book tumbled from his lap to the floor.

"Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

Without warning she pressed her mouth against his. Her full lips were warm and soft as she claimed the kiss. Her hand clasped the back of his neck possessively. Walter closed his eyes, feeling a rush of warmth flood his loins. His fists clenched in his lap; he yearned to unfasten her long black hair and feel it cascading around his face.

"You're mine," she asserted against his lips. "Say it."

"I'm yours, ma'am."

Her fingernails dug into his skin for the briefest of moments, then Mrs. Harroway sat back on the sofa, angling her body away from him. She stared fiercely into the fire.

"Good night, Walter."

He hesitated, waiting for her to melt, to change her mind and ask him to stay. He would remain all night at her feet in the hope of one more kiss.

If only she would not send him away.

"Go," she growled.

Walter could not help but respond to the command in her voice. He dressed quickly and let himself out into the frozen black night.


	7. Chapter 7

Walter had awoken on Friday morning and found that it required much more effort than it should to get out of bed. His body complained at every little movement. Quads, hams, and back protesting, he had risen and shuffled to the bathroom like a ninety-year-old man. He took some time to stretch, afraid that he would never be able to complete the walk to work if he did not. He had allowed himself the luxury of a few whimpers when his muscles rebelled violently.

After a long day forcing his bruised body perform the way it should at work, he staggered eight city blocks to Mrs. Harroway's brownstone, _gi_ tucked into a satchel over his shoulder. His hat kept trying to fly away in the brisk wind. Walter was not looking forward to the evening's judo practice, for both physical and emotional reasons. Under torture, he might admit that his heart felt just as bludgeoned as his body. He had offended his mistress somehow, and he had no idea in what way he had done so, let alone the path he should take to repair the damage. Would she even accept him into her house this evening? He drew his coat tighter around him against the cold.

_I should have known better than to get myself involved in this,_ he thought._ What does a woman like that really want from a man like me? A diversion, that's what. No more, no less._

The bitterness evaporated, however, when she opened the door. She looked so young and vulnerable in her white _gi_, that long dark braid hanging down her back. Her lips curved in the small smile with which she always greeted him. He could perceive no trace of disappointment or animosity in her manner as she escorted him down to the basement dojo.

_Can she_ _have compartmentalized our interactions to such an extent? Can my mistress be angry when my _sensei_ is not?_

Mrs. Harroway set him to stretching, and, though he labored not to show her his discomfort, her eagle-sharp eyes detected the tiny signs he could not hide.

"It has been a long week for you, Walter. Perhaps we shall devote our session this evening to something simple: perfecting the first _kata_."

His face made apparent his feelings about this proposition. She smiled sympathetically and joined him on the mat, kneeling gracefully in the very position he had learned to adopt upstairs.

"Why do you think the _kata_ exist? Why have judo practitioners performed them intact for centuries?"

Walter pondered his answer for some time, legs spread wide in front of him. "I don't know," he admitted at last.

She nodded. "No, you don't. And this is why you esteem the _kata _so lightly." Her small fingers pressed carefully on his shoulderblades to force a deeper stretch. He could feel the hardness of her wedding ring. "Flatten your back, so. Imagine bringing your belly horizontal to the floor. There. Now breathe. The _kata_ serve several very important purposes. The practice preserves the techniques of judo throughout the generations. It promotes the balance of flesh and spirit. It trains our body to perform without thinking, as one must do in a fight situation. And unless I miss my mark, Walter, this last reason is the one that interests you most of all."

She released him, and he moved into a butterfly pose, pressing the soles of his feet together and drawing them toward his groin. He stared grimly down at the mat and pulled much-needed oxygen into his lungs.

"Good. Now show me what you remember," she commanded.

Walter rose awkwardly to his feet.

"_Sensei_?"

"Yes, Walter."

He assumed the first position of the _kata_. "Why did _you_ learn judo?"

"My father taught me, when I was a little child. He was an experienced _judoka_."

Walter frowned. "Why did he...forgive me, _sensei._..why did he feel that his daughter should learn judo?"

"I have two brothers, and he taught them as well." Mrs. Harroway rose to adjust his posture. "Watch the mirror."

This was one element of the _kata_ which Walter understood very well, but hated nonetheless. He had no interest in studying his own physical form in a mirror. Clenching his jaw, he stared at himself and tried to visualize the body in the mirror as an abstract object, a puppet that he could control, or not, as he wished, like a shadowboxing opponent.

"My father..." she began, then broke off and cleared her throat. "My father believed it was very important for his family to understand self-defense. He instructed us in the style of judo intended for combat, not the form more commonly used in schools. This is the style I am teaching you."

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Walter bowed his head slightly. She walked him through the _kata_ once and expressed pleasure at his capable memory. He was relaxing once again into the ordered calm of the dojo: her soft voice, the lack of clutter, the regular patterns of movement. Perhaps his body understood the purpose of the _kata_ better than his mind did.

"You have quite a solid understanding of your own kinesthetics," she complimented him. "You know, I have never asked you about your athletic history."

"Gymnastics and boxing, _sensei_," he anticipated her, flushing under her praise.

Mrs. Harroway nodded thoughtfully, then indicated the center of the mat. "Again."

Walter managed to restrain the concern that prickled at the inside of his scalp until he was dressed in his street clothes and standing in the front hallway. Then Mrs. Harroway padded to the door to let him out, and he could control himself no longer.

"Ma'am?" he murmured.

She whirled and cocked her head, giving him an odd look. His body felt lumpy and awkward under her gaze, his hands useless, so he knelt on the stone floor. Her eyes narrowed, but he felt so much more comfortable this way.

"What is it, Walter?"

He cringed inwardly at the sharpness of her tone. He had guessed correctly: it was his mistress who was angry, not his _sensei_. He stared at the floor miserably.

"Ma'am, I offended you last night, but I do not understand what I did. Please instruct me."

Mrs. Harroway licked her lips and stepped toward him. As she came closer, he could see the gooseflesh raised on her bare feet and ankles by the chill floor. He clenched his fists in his lap.

"You did not offend me, Walter," she said gently. "If you ever do, I will certainly punish you for it, but I will also explain your error. That is the only way in which a submissive may grow and improve."

_Submissive_. His mind chewed pensively on the term. "So," he asked falteringly, "I am...your submissive."

She took a deep breath, and he felt the cool smoothness of her knuckles brush his cheek. Without thinking, Walter turned his face to increase the contact. Her hand turned to cup his cheekbone, her thumb stroking the top curve of his ear idly. He closed his eyes and melted under her touch.

"Yes," she breathed. "You are my submissive, and I, in turn, am your domme. Now, whatever made you think that you had offended me?"

"You turned your face and sent me away," Walter replied plaintively, grimacing at the memory.

"Oh, dear boy," Mrs. Harroway whispered. She tilted his head back and bent forward to kiss him on the lips. He returned the kiss hungrily. The firm softness of her mouth sent waves of electricity pulsing through his exhausted flesh. He moaned shamelessly. Her fingers slipped into the hair at the top of his neck as she pulled back a few inches, her dark eyes burning a hole in him.

"I turned away, my darling, because you were testing my patience, but not in the manner you suspect. You are such a delicious sub, so strong and beautiful and...and even my restraint has its limits."

"I don't understand," he implored, eyes wide.

She leaned in, until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "I have such magnificent plans for you, dearest," she murmured, "that it pains me to wait."

She bit down on his earlobe, and Walter gasped.

"You must take what you want, ma'am," he moaned.

Her low laughter stirred his groin to life.

"Oh, I shall, I shall. But Rome was not built in a day, nor are wild horses broken so easily."

Her scent overwhelmed him. His eyelids fluttered with desire, and goosebumps rose on his neck as she released him. She straightened and stared down at him, a devilish smile curving her lips.

Break me, he wanted to beg. Break me.

"You must rest this weekend, darling. Eat well. Let your body recover. Our judo session on Monday will not be so easy as today's."

Walter nodded obediently, his heart sinking at the thought of being parted from her for seventy-two long hours. What would he do with himself? Sleep. Write in his journal. Wait until dark, when Rorschach could go out.

"If you work hard on Monday, I shall give you a small reward on Tuesday."

His breath caught with pleasure and surprise.

"What would you like?" she asked. "A _small_ reward, mind!"

The possibilities overwhelmed his mind. His body submitted notions of a very specific sort, but he dismissed these as crass. What would she like?

"Well?" Mrs. Harroway prompted, laughing.

"Wear the corset, ma'am," he blurted. "Please wear the corset on Tuesday."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why does that appeal to you?"

"Because it pleases you, ma'am, and that makes you all the more beautiful."

His heart banged in his chest as she pondered his response. He could not read the expression on her face.

"Leave now, Walter."

He snatched up his hat and scrambled to his feet, hastening to obey her. His hand reached for the doorknob, but Mrs. Harroway inserted two fingers into his collar and jerked him back.

"But know this," she hissed against his neck. "I send you away so abruptly for your own good."

Her right hand snaked around his body to squeeze his erection through his trousers. Walter groaned and stumbled out into the cold city night, dizzy with lust. The door clicking shut behind him started a countdown in his head.

****

A/N: I apologize for any errors in my descriptions of judo, here and in other chapters. Please correct me! That is the only way a submissive ahem a _writer_ can grow and improve. ;D


	8. Chapter 8

"As requested," Mrs. Harroway said pertly when she opened the door. Walter's eyes went immediately to the white leather corset embracing her torso. He had exerted himself harder on Monday night than he could ever remember doing in any training session for any sport, ever. He had had to work for it and wait for it, but now he had his reward.

He followed her into the library, greedily absorbing the sight of her body. She wore a short, colorful silk kimono over the corset and a black suede skirt underneath it. The skirt was slit up both seams, higher than was strictly decent so that, when she walked, Walter could see the top of her stockings and the creamy flesh peeking out above. He swallowed manfully.

"Laces," she ordered, stripping the kimono off and flinging it on the sofa.

Walter stepped forward with eager alacrity to do her up. It seemed ages since he had seen the smooth flesh of her shoulders and the sweet swell at the top of her breasts. He recalled how, only days before, he had cringed back from her body. Now he sought secret ways to caress her while he tightened the top laces; his knuckle would brush her skin as if accidentally, his lips graze her chignon. He memorized tiny details: a small mole on her left shoulderblade, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. He grew bolder when he moved to the lower set of laces and braced his forearm on the curve of her backside to pull the strings tight. He tugged forcefully this time, anxious to please. When Mrs. Harroway turned around, he was gratified to see the flush on her cheeks and the dilation of her eyes.

She sat carefully on the sofa, muscular arms stretched out to either side along the back, and crossed her legs. The slit in her skirt rode up to show the garter-strap on her topmost leg. The toe of her high-heeled shoe turned lazy circles in the air. She said nothing.

Walter knelt on the hearth rug and began to remove his clothes: jacket, tie, shirt, tee, shoes, socks. Then he hesitated.

Mrs. Harroway indicated his pants with her eyes.

He rose and, taking a deep breath, unfastened his fly. He pushed the trousers down. She hummed encouragement, and he stepped out of the pants, naked now except for a pair of white underpants. It took every ounce of courage in him to stand up straight again. The knuckle of her forefinger was clamped between her teeth as her eyes ran over him.

"Are you warm enough, darling?" she asked at last. The taunting note in her voice deepened his blush.

Walter began to kneel again. The bulge in his underwear would be less noticeable if his knees were bent.

He hoped.

She raised a finger to stop him kneeling, then pointed to the end table next to her. "Come fetch this book first."

He scuttled to retrieve the book, then returned to collapse gratefully onto the hearth rug. The book covered his lap nicely.

Mrs. Harroway smiled at him knowingly. "There is a bookmark. Yes, that's it. Read the poem aloud, dearest. The Rilke."

"'Sonnet to Orpheus'?"

She nodded.

Walter cleared his throat.

"'Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were  
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.  
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter  
that only by wintering through it all will your heart survive.  
Be forever dead in'..."

He stumbled.

"'Eurydice'."

"Yoo-rih-duh-see. 'Be forever dead in Eurydice – more gladly arise  
into the seamless life proclaimed in your song.  
Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,  
be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.  
Be – and yet know the great void where all things begin,  
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,  
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.  
To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb  
creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums,  
joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.'"

He stared at the page for a long moment after he had finished, then looked up at her. Her dark eyes reflected the fire, and he could not read her expression.

"Again," she murmured softly.

Walter read it aloud a second time, with greater fluency and more emotion.

"Louder."

A third time he spoke the lines, plunging into them and proclaiming them for his mistress.

"'Be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang'," she repeated quietly. "I shall have you read aloud to me more often, darling. I do believe that you feel poetry in your soul."

"I do not pretend to understand this one, ma'am."

Mrs. Harroway smiled. "Nor do I. And I have read it perhaps a hundred times more than you."

"You are cleverer than I, ma'am."

"No. Better educated, perhaps. But I do not want a fool for a submissive. And you, dearest, are no fool."

She cast an appraising glance over him. Despite his state of undress, he enjoyed feeling her gaze upon him. He closed the book and set it on the floor; he would not use it to hide himself anymore.

"I'm going to bind you," she said evenly.

Walter blinked at her, not sure if he had heard correctly. But then Mrs. Harroway rose, and he turned his head up to see her draw a length of rope and a knife from a wooden box on the mantel. She left the knife on the mantelpiece and approached him with the rope.

"Stand up, and put your hands behind your back."

He stood, frowning.

"Something to say?" she asked archly.

"What are you going to do, ma'am?"

"I told you: I'm going to bind you."

He cleared his throat. "No, ma'am. I mean _after_."

She stared at him coldly, and he experienced a sinking sensation in his gut. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she prowled around him like a jungle cat.

"I will do what pleases me," she hissed, and each word dropped into his heart like an ice cube. "And I will not tolerate insolence. I'm going to bind your hands, boy, and then blindfold you. Why am I going to bind you?"

"Because it pleases you, ma'am," he answered wretchedly.

"Why am I going to blindfold you?"

"For my insolence, ma'am."

Walter crossed his wrists over his buttocks. The rope was gnarly, with bristly tendrils sticking out of it. They pricked his skin as she tied his hands firmly together. He ground his wrists together experimentally and felt no give in the bindings.

"Stand up straight."

He threw his shoulders back and felt the fear rising in him. His instincts screamed at him to escape, to make her release him, by whatever means necessary. His muscles trembled with the effort of self-restraint. Warily, he watched Mrs. Harroway return to the box on the mantel. She withdrew a piece of dark fabric. His eyes widened with alarm as she approached him. She put one tiny hand on his chest and met his gaze. He saw no pity in her.

"Please," he begged, all the while cringing inwardly at his own cowardice. "Please don't. I can't."

Mrs. Harroway's eyes transfixed him. "You can."

Walter grimaced and bit his lip. She stepped behind him, and he felt the bottom edge of her corset press against his bound hands, but he had no time to importune her again

_please don't_

before the blindfold covered his eyes, and she knotted it carefully at the back of his head.

The panic rose in him like a tidal wave. He hauled in a gasping breath and bellowed wordlessly through gritted teeth. Tears moistened his eyes under the blindfold.

"You can take this," Mrs. Harroway insisted. "You are strong, and you can take this."

He shook his head wildly, hoping the fabric wrapped around his face would loosen. His hands clenched convulsively.

Suddenly her fingernails were digging into his bicep. The pain cut through the gray haze of terrifying vulnerability. He focused on the sensation, grasping at it like a drowning man would a piece of driftwood.

"You are strong," she repeated, "and you can take this."

Walter swallowed and willed his heartbeat to slow. The pain in his arm disappeared as Mrs. Harroway passed around in front of him.

"Breathe."

He did.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The panic receded.

"Oh, my beautiful darling," he heard her whisper. "My brave boy."

In the wake of the fear came that odd feeling of alert calm he sometimes achieved in her presence. He wondered if she had ever experienced it herself. The possibility had never occurred to him. Had Mrs. Harroway ever been a submissive? Or was she only a domme? Was a person born one way and not the other? Or could a person switch? Walter realized that he was drifting. He focused on his surroundings, concentrating on the heat of the fire, the thickness of the rug under his bare feet, the sound of Mrs. Harroway opening the wooden box one more time. Her heels on the floor.

"I'm holding a tool, dearest," she explained quietly. "It's called a Wartenberg wheel. Doctors use it to test a patient's neurological health. There is a long metal handle, and on the end is bolted a small spiked wheel, like the spur on a cowboy's boot. Do you feel it?"

He felt something like a cold toothbrush being placed against his belly. She pressed the side of the object against him, and the spurs pricked him. Her fingers stroked his stomach. He relaxed under the soft caresses, knowing that the wheel would be next. Sure enough, she soon began to roll the little spikes over his belly. He gasped at the sensation. She exerted a little more pressure, but still it did not hurt as much as he had imagined. In fact, the interplay of her fingers and the wheel were sending blood back down toward his groin. Walter threw his shoulders back further, giving her his exposed chest. The spikes traveled over his solar plexus to the sensitive flesh at the side of his ribcage. He had never felt anything like the ticklish pain that jagged through him. Her fingertip brushed his nipple, and he moaned softly. He heard her low laugh, that sound like water over river stones. It swelled his erection.

"I thought you might like this," Mrs. Harroway murmured, her breath hot on his chest. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he admitted.

The wheel rolled over his shoulder onto his back. He wriggled as the spurs tickled him. She stroked him with her hand to settle him. Then she continued with the wheel. Then he felt her hand again. Soon he was not sure which to expect, flesh or metal, and he abandoned himself to her ministrations, sometimes moaning, sometimes gasping, sometimes just glorying in the cascading sensations.

At last she stepped away, and Walter floated limply, listening to the fire crackle.

"I'm going to cut your bindings, darling. Don't move your hands."

He stood comfortably, unconcerned, as she slit the rope with her knife and freed his wrists. The sound of the rope dropping to the floor made him feel somehow forlorn.

"Come with me," she murmured, taking his hand. She drew him carefully forward and pressed him down into a kneeling position before the sofa, on which she sat. Stroking his hair, she guided his head down onto her lap. Walter curled himself against her legs, content to wear the blindfold as long as she wished.

"Tell me how you feel, dearest," she said after some time.

The effort of speaking was enormous. He could scarcely make his voice work, let alone formulate words to express the peaceful joy that saturated his body. Instead, he took her hands in his and covered them with kisses. Mrs. Harroway laughed with delight. Tilting his head up, she pressed her lips against his mouth. Walter sighed and melted against her.

"Now," she said, breaking the kiss gently, "are you ready for that blindfold to come off?"

"As you like, ma'am."

She stroked his face, then reached behind his head to untie the knot in the fabric. "Let me see those beautiful eyes."

Walter squinched his lids shut against the light when the blindfold came away. Then he opened his eyes, and he met her gaze adoringly. His hand rested on her thigh, which was partially revealed by the slit in her skirt. He began to toy idly with her garter-strap. She smiled at him indulgently.

"I wish you could have seen yourself: how gorgeous you looked like that."

He blushed and traced the skin under her garter. The suede of her skirt was soft, but her flesh was softer. "Do I really please you, ma'am?"

"You please me immensely."

He stared down at the snap hooking her garter to her stocking. "I could please you more," he whispered. He looked up to see her corseted breasts rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. Her lips were parted. She tilted her head back, groaning softly, and grabbed a handful of his hair.

"Hush now, or I'll send you away."

"Yes, ma'am." Walter sighed resignedly and rested his head in her lap.

****

A/N: The translation of the Rilke poem is by the magnificent Stephen Mitchell. I thought it would take me longer to send Walter down, but he and I had words about it and decided that, if he would go down, he would go down FAST. That said, I hope his submission in this chap is believable. However, not everything's said and done as far as Walter's submission.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hmmm, don't know how this one got so long...Rated M for some mild pain play and talk of buttocks. Quotes from Venus in Furs and Puccini's 'Turandot'.

*****

On Wednesday she taught him the second _kata_, and on Thursday he found himself visualizing the series of movements while he worked. The hum of the sewing machine, he had always found, was conducive to this sort of daydreaming. One had to be careful, however; he had been so excited to see Mrs. Harroway on Monday night that he had ruined the bobbin and needed to stay late to fix it. He had sworn not to let her possess him except for those few hours a week, and yet her influence was seeping into the rest of his life, saturating his every thought and deed. When Walter summoned enough courage to examine this phenomenon, he found himself strangely unafraid. And Rorschach, despite his horror at Walter's physical reactions to Mrs. Harroway, could not deny that her teachings – _all_ of her teachings – made the inky latex less a mask and more a face.

That night Walter rang the bell of her brownstone, but she did not answer. He rang again. At last, he cautiously turned the knob and found it unlocked. He poked his head inside, calling out to her. Mrs. Harroway appeared at the top of the stairs in gray slacks and a sweater. The deep indigo color of the cashmere made her eyes and hair seem impossibly, exotically dark. She smiled and waved him up to the second floor. He removed his coat and hat, then climbed the stairs with a sense of disappointment niggling at the back of his mind. It had been too much to hope, he supposed, that she might wear the corset again.

When he reached the landing, she kissed him softly on the lips, and he could smell that light scent of peaches on her flesh, and he forgave her everything. He trailed her into her sitting room, where it became clear why she had not heard the doorbell ringing: opera music was pouring out of her record player.

"Do you know it?" she asked, cocking her head. "This aria?"

Walter shook his head. She turned down the volume, then sat on the chaise lounge. He knelt at her feet, removing his jacket and tie, settling into that now-familiar feeling of calm and order as her voice played over him.

"It's the '_Nessun dorma'_, from 'Turandot'. Princess Turandot does not want to experience love, so she makes a decree that she will only marry a man who can answer her three riddles. If a man tries but fails, then he loses his head. At last a prince arrives who can answer her riddles, but she is so enraged by his success, and he is so smitten by her, that he offers her a second chance: if she can discover his name by sunrise, he will accept death. The princess orders her entire kingdom to stay awake throughout the night and find out his name. No one will sleep, '_nessun dorma'_. The prince sings this aria about his hope that he can melt Turandot's heart. This line, '_vincero'_..." She paused so they could listen. "It means 'I shall win'."

"So the romance is a contest between them," Walter concluded.

"I suppose you could look at it that way," Mrs. Harroway replied, regarding him seriously.

"Does he win?"

She smiled wryly. "Yes, he does. Although a romantic might say that they both win."

_A romantic might continue to wear the ring that binds her to a dead husband_, he thought, eyeing the band of gold on her slim finger. He remained silent, however.

The song ended, and the record player hummed quietly, its needle clicking to the end of the vinyl groove. Mrs. Harroway clasped her hands together and bit her lip. In her soft sweater, she looked delightfully girlish.

"I have something for you, darling," she announced.

"What? Handcuffs?" he teased.

Her eyes flashed, and he cursed his quick mouth, but then he saw she was smiling at him devilishly. "Don't give me ideas. Metal would look so beautiful against your skin."

She stroked his wrist, and Walter felt a ball of desire unwinding in his belly. He was no longer afraid to be bound by her. In fact, he imagined the feel of handcuffs chaining his forearms while his mistress toyed with him, and he experienced an odd longing.

"I want to show you off a little bit," she said softly, clasping his hands in hers. "An acquaintance has invited me to a party next Friday, a special kind of party for dominants and submissives. I want to take you."

"You want to take me to a party? As your submissive?"

"Yes, darling. I know it sounds terrifying, but events like this are very discreet. I doubt there would be anyone you know there, but, even if there were, they would never discuss your presence with outsiders, for obvious reasons. I thought that perhaps we could swap our Thursday and Friday night sessions."

She hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice contained a fragile quality that he had never heard before.

"Would you like to go with me?"

Walter stared at their linked hands. It was one thing to submit to Mrs. Harroway in private, according to their own arrangement. But this was something else entirely. He wondered what he would be expected to do, but he knew better than to ask. He took a deep breath as if about to dive into a cold pool.

"I would like that," he said hurriedly, before he could change his mind, ignoring the disquiet that churned behind his breastbone.

Mrs. Harroway beamed down at him and clapped her hands gleefully.

"Oh, I'm glad, darling! Time for your present then: I've bought you a suit to wear to the party. I do hope you like it."

She rose and, striding to her bedroom door, plucked a garment bag from behind it. She hung it on a hook next to the full-length mirror and crooked a finger at Walter. He rose to unzip the bag, remembering the feel of unwrapping a present by sliding one finger under the tape and loosening it gently until the paper separated. The wool suit he revealed was finer than any men's garment he had ever tailored, let alone worn. The soft fabric was charcoal gray and fine as silk to the touch. He undid the two buttons on the coat; a matching, fitted vest nestled inside.

"This is for me?" he asked incredulously.

Mrs. Harroway nodded and indicated the mirror with her eyes. Walter kicked off his shoes and stripped his pants. He slipped back into his undershirt.

"I think I got your sizes right, but it will likely need fitting," she called, elbow-deep in the top drawer of her vanity. She pulled out a pincushion.

Walter unfolded the trousers from the hanger and slipped them on. The wool was warm but lightweight. He buttoned the fly, then stared into the mirror, flabbergasted, as Mrs. Harroway knelt at his feet to pin the hems. She caught sight of his face out of the corner of her eye.

"I may be a woman of leisure, dearest, but I am not entirely useless," she drawled around a mouthful of pins. "Do you want a cuff?"

"No."

She tucked the hem of one pantleg up a few inches. "Do you like that break?"

He nodded, enjoying the way her buttocks curved as she crouched by his feet. She moved to the other leg.

"How's the waist?"

"Perfect," he marveled, admiring the drape of the fabric.

She squinted up at his groin critically and tugged on the fly. "Does the rise feel all right?"

Walter's mouth quirked in a smile. She winked. He wanted to kiss her more than anything. He swallowed instead and said, "How'd you know my size so well?"

"I asked your boss."

"Mr. Green?" he gasped.

Mrs. Harroway laughed and cocked an eyebrow up at him. "Your Mr. Green has been procuring for me from Day One. Who do you think arranged for _you_ to bring me my corset?"

He stared down at her, aghast. She rose and removed the vest carefully from the hanger. Walter accepted it from her wordlessly.

"I asked him to send you, and he didn't even blink. Then I called him the other day to ask your sizes. He's a good tailor; he should know. And not only did he tell me right off, he referred me to a Jewish friend in the garment district who specializes in tight-woven gabardines. _Et voila_!"

"You asked Mr. Green to send me?" he repeated warily as he straightened the vest over his shoulders. He avoided her eyes.

"I did." She stepped forward to button him up and smoothed the vest against his ribcage. "Think the vest needs taking in?" She moved aside so he could see himself in the mirror.

He ignored his reflection. "Why?"

"I think it might be a little loose in the waist; you're so trim."

"No, I mean: why did you ask him to send me?"

Mrs. Harroway turned her head to admire his appearance in the mirror. "Because I wanted you, dearest. I had hoped to seduce you through more ordinary means, but you suggested the judo training, and...well, I simply could not let that chance pass me by."

"You wanted me?"

She stared into his light brown eyes. "Put the jacket on so we can pin the sleeves. Then I want you to strip."

Walter shivered at the command in her voice and obeyed her automatically. She knelt to fix the jacket cuffs. His hands tingled where her fingers brushed him. The point of a pin grazed his skin, and he shivered.

"Shall I do the tailoring, ma'am?"

She looked up at him thoughtfully. "Would you like to, dearest?"

"I think I would."

"I think that's a lovely idea," she answered, placing her hand on his stomach. "But for now, let's get you out of those clothes."

Walter removed the suit and hung it in the garment bag gently, like a mother laying her child to sleep. For some reason he could not fully understand, the thought of tailoring the suit she had bought for him filled his body with anticipation. She had said that she wanted to show him off, and he would do his everloving best to cut a good figure.

"Thank you for my present, ma'am," he ventured.

"I confess, darling, that it is really a gift to myself, seeing you in that. And you will make the other subs so jealous."

He blushed, naked but for his undershirt, socks and underwear.

"Keep going," Mrs. Harroway urged mildly.

Walter pulled off his undershirt and hooked a finger in each sock to remove it.

"Keep going," she repeated.

He stared at her in dismay. She gazed back levelly. His eyes begged her to relent, but she was merciless. Grimacing, he grabbed his underpants and jerked them down to the floor. Mrs. Harroway chuckled as his hands clasped in front of his exposed genitals. She indicated a small armchair in the corner.

"I want you in front of that chair, facing it. Kneel up."

Walter complied; he was happy to turn his pudenda away. He placed his palms on the low cushion, feeling his knees sink into the pile of the carpet. He was not sure what to expect. The Wartenberg wheel again?

She stalked around him and ran her fingertips over his upper back.

"Do you want to please me, dearest?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do," he answered fervently.

"It doesn't seem that way when you refuse to submit to my commands."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

He startled as strips of leather tickled his back. His head swung around.

"Eyes front," she commanded.

He looked back at the chair, but not before he had seen the implement that his mistress held. It appeared to be a short, multi-stranded whip.

"This is a flogger, darling. I'm going to beat you with it."

"Because I didn't want to obey you, ma'am?"

"No. I intend to flog you because it pleases me to do so, and for no other reason. I want to raise welts on that beautiful flesh of yours and make you cry out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, not quite certain that he did.

"Do you recall the feeling of that place inside, where you go when submitting to me?"

"You know about that, ma'am?"

She ignored his breathless question. "I want you to go down into that place now. Do you think you can do that?"

"I...could...could you pull my hair, ma'am?"

Mrs. Harroway's laughter trilled. "My pleasure." Gripping his unruly locks in her right hand, she tugged his head sharply backward. She stroked the tender flesh of his neck with the handle of the flogger. The vulnerability of his position pleased him, rather than frightening him. He was startled to realize that he trusted her completely.

Walter's eyes shut, and he tumbled down into that place she had described.

The leather straps fell lightly upon his back. It was no more painful than swatting a mosquito on his arm. She established a rhythm, almost soothing in its regularity, like the hum of the sewing machines at work. He laid his forearms on the chair and let his face sink down to rest on them. Walter relaxed.

Soon he became aware that Mrs. Harroway's strokes were more forceful. They made a louder thwapping sound against his back. His skin began to sting continuously in the place where she flogged him. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably.

Walter heard the powerful blow before he felt it. By the time his nerve endings caught up with his ears, Mrs. Harroway was already two strokes ahead. He grimaced at the burning pain and the words of Masoch's Severin flashed through his mind.

"We are such opposites, almost enemies. That is why my love is part hate, part fear. In such a relation only one can be hammer and the other anvil. I wish to be the anvil. I cannot be happy when I look down upon the woman I love. I want to adore a woman, and this I can only do when she is cruel towards me. It is possible to love really only that which stands above us: a woman, who through her beauty, temperament, intelligence, and strength of will subjugates us and becomes a despot over us."

Yes, Walter understood now. And what a terrible thing that understanding was.

He clenched his fingers, breathing heavily, and still she flogged him. The desperate instincts of self-preservation rose in his chest to struggle against his calm submission. He focused on Mrs. Harroway, on her charm and beauty and brilliance.

_She sent for me_.

He had thought it all a coincidence, but, in fact, Mrs. Harroway had wanted him and had brought him to her. Now he was hers, and gladly.

A particularly sharp blow cracked across his shoulder, and Walter winced.

"Do you want me to stop?" she demanded.

"I want what _you_ want, ma'am."

Four more wicked strokes fell rapidly on him. He grunted with the pain. Then Mrs. Harroway was crouching beside him, her eyes full and dark.

"Are you well, darling?" she asked solicitously. Spider-light, her fingers explored the damage to his back. "I have not broken the skin. Stay where you are."

Walter was content to rest while she left the room. He heard a faucet running. She returned moments later with a cold compress for his tenderized flesh. He relaxed into the soothing coolness. She kissed his shoulder, her lips soft and warm.

At last he turned his head, resting his cheek on his forearms. "Why did you ask me if I wanted to go to the party, ma'am? Why ask, when you can command?"

He was shocked to see her blush.

"It is my foolish pride, dearest. You are here as a point of honor, I know this. But I still like to imagine that your surrender is for reasons other than our contract."

He could not say whence the courage came, but with sudden force he toppled her backward and guided her to the floor, his lips drinking feverishly of her mouth. She twined her fingers into his hair. When he slipped his tongue between her teeth, she sucked eagerly on the probing muscle. Her body was strong and slim and warm under his. Despite the burning pain in his back

_or because of it?_

his member hardened against her thigh. Walter broke from the kiss, gasping for air, and buried his face in her soft throat. Her small hand stroked his buttock.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye looked up. It was the reflection of her hand in the mirror. He froze, transfixed by the image: his pasty, freckled, disgustingly nude backside and her slim, smooth fingers, one of which was ringed by a gold band containing a diamond chip worth more than everything he owned. Walter scrambled backward so quickly that the carpet fibers burned his knees raw.

Mrs. Harroway watched without comment as he dressed in his own clothes, then she rose to fetch the garment bag. He accepted it wordlessly, staring at the floor.

"I thought we might start on joint locks tomorrow," she said breezily, but he could hear the quaver in her voice.

Walter nodded.

He was walking out of her sitting room when he heard the crackle of a needle on vinyl, followed by the tenor:

'_Nessun dorma...nessun dorma'.  
Tu pure, o principessa,  
nella fredda stanza guardi le stelle  
che tremano d'amore e di speranza.  
Ma il mistero e chiuso in me.  
Il nome mio nessun sapra!  
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo diro  
quando la luce splendera.  
Ed il mio bacio sciogliera  
il silenzio che ti fa mia..._

The door shut behind him.

*****

A/N: The lines quoted at the end from Puccini's aria read, "'No one will sleep...no one will sleep'. You too, oh princess, in your frozen room watch the stars, that tremble with love and hope. But my secret is enclosed inside me. My name no one will know! No, no, upon your lips I will speak it when the light shines. And my kiss will dismiss the silence, which makes you mine..." (my trans.).


	10. Chapter 10

He was well aware that she had only introduced the hammerlock into their lesson because she was afraid. He had seen the look in her eyes when he finished his warm-up and conditioning. She had never shown him anything like that uncertainty before.

She thought she was losing him.

So Walter worked hard on Friday night to prove that he was still hers, but something dark inside him could not help but gloat about her weakness. It seemed that Mrs. Harroway was not perfect after all. Like any mortal, she had her doubts and uncertainties, and things did not always turn out the way she intended.

Rorschach, meanwhile, cared nothing for Mrs. Harroway's strengths or her weaknesses. He merely rejoiced in the application of this new technique, one which he had attempted on several previous occasions without much success. The hammerlock seemed so simple: twist the arm behind the back, then lift the elbow. Elementary. Unfortunately, Rorschach's opponents were often able to roll out of the hold, particularly men who had a height advantage over him. Now Mrs. Harroway had shown him the best angle at which to hold the forearm. She had even demonstrated some small joint locks that could easily break the restrained man's fingers if he tried to release himself from the hold. When performed correctly, the move required very little power. She had trapped him with it several times during their Friday night session. Rorschach used it several hours later to pin a pimp against a dumpster. The panderer tried to roll out of the hold and, to Rorschach's delight, dislocated two fingers and a shoulder with practically no assistance.

Walter could not wait for Monday, because he would see Mrs. Harroway again.

Rorschach could not wait for Monday, because she would teach him a new way to inflict pain.

******

Mr. Green had asked Walter to come in to work on Saturday, as he often did when orders were piling up. It would soon be spring; gentlemen wanted their warm-weather suits, while ladies hoped to have frocks ready in time for Passover and Easter. When Walter walked in the door that morning with garment bag in hand, Mr. Green said nothing, although his eyebrows did pop up just a fraction. Walter ignored him and hung his new suit by his station in the back, where he could keep an eye on it. And so he did, looking up at it from time to time with muted excitement while he hemmed cuffs and let out seams for paying customers. He could almost hear the fine wool humming in his mind, calling out to him.

At four p.m. Mr. Green locked up the shop.

"I need to stay late, Mr. Green."

"Walter," he warned, "I can't pay you the overtime."

"No need," Walter answered firmly. "I won't be long."

The tailor regarded him speculatively. His eyes flashed briefly toward the garment bag hanging by Walter's station, but he said nothing. At last he nodded.

"Make sure all the machines are off and the lights are out when you leave."

"Of course, Mr. Green."

When he was alone, Walter unzipped the bag to reveal his new suit. He decided to begin with the coat. Laying the garment on his work station, he examined the sleeves and the neat way in which Mrs. Harroway had pinned the hems. He remembered the sight of her slim fingers tending to him. And the ring.

He paused while reaching for the pincushion. The image of her wedding ring was emblazoned on his mind. Walter wondered what her husband had looked like. He had not seen any pictures of Mr. Harroway in the brownstone. Surely she had some. Was he much older than his wife? Tall or short? Fat or thin? He must have been the distinguished sort of man who wore suits like this one everyday. Walter's mind turned a corner: had Mr. Harroway been his wife's submissive? Had she dealt with her husband the way she dealt with Walter? Had _he_ knelt at her feet and yearned for her slightest touch? Had he too called her "ma'am", knowing that she was mistress of his heart and body?

Walter frowned. There was so much about his dark lady that was mysterious. He suddenly realized that he did not even know her first name. Well, _that_ was a puzzle easily solved. He set down his suit and went to the filing cabinet under the front counter where Mr. Green kept special orders. He found her invoice easily. It was written in the tailor's crabbed script, and Walter was unable at first to read the word that preceded 'Harroway'. He stared fixedly until the letters resolved themselves into a name.

April.

April Harroway.

He said the name over and over to himself in his mind as he returned the invoice to the drawer and walked back to his work station. Shaking his head to clear it, Walter began hemming the left cuff of his jacket.

Her name was April.

What had been the husband's name? Was it something patrician like 'Roland' or 'Edgar'? Biblical, like 'Adam'? Familial, like 'Atwater'? What name had she gasped into his ear when he took her to his bed?

Suddenly Walter recalled a scene from Venus in Furs in which Wanda described a conversation with her husband just before he died:

"'Don't deceive me,' he added on one occasion, 'that would seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you need toys.'"

Did Mrs. Harroway need toys?

Was Walter one of them?

After a moment of deep thought, Walter concluded that he did not mind being her toy; she took good care of her toys, clearly. And yet his lack of concern about this subjugation set off a quiet alarm in the back of his head. Ignoring it, he gritted his teeth and moved on to the right sleeve. When the coat was done, he picked up the trousers. Thoughtlessly, he began to hum. Several minutes passed before he recognized the tune as the tenor aria from 'Turandot'.

****

Mrs. Harroway eyed the mismatched band-aids curiously. Rorschach had severely scraped the middle knuckles on his right hand, and, although he would not normally bandage them, he kept knocking his fingers against objects and re-opening the wounds. There were only three plasters left in the box, however, and the ones in the new box he bought were slightly different than the others. It had not seemed an issue at the time, but, now, under her gaze, his attempt at first aid looked shoddy and ridiculous. He tucked his hands behind his back.

"Will you tell me one day?" she murmured sadly.

Walter frowned. "Tell you what, _sensei_?"

But he was no fool. He knew what she meant. Mrs. Harroway had seen the bruises and scrapes on his body, but she had made no comment until now. He understood her curiosity about his urgent desire to learn the techniques of judo. Walter wanted to tell her; he trusted her completely. But Rorschach was a harder egg to crack.

She eyed him with that gaze that made him feel naked before her, more naked than he had been when he stood unclothed in her sitting room. Sometimes he felt that he would not be surprised if she knew about Rorschach, if she could see through Walter to the masked vigilante. But she asked nothing more, and Walter gave her no answers. He threw himself instead into several increasingly well-executed demonstrations of the second _kata_. His _sensei_'s comments were brief and laudatory. She expressed amazement again at what a quick study he was. At last she told him to take a rest. He knelt on the mat to recover his breath and found himself avoiding her gaze. Hauling oxygen into his lungs, he focused on the scroll hanging by the door; he had admired the _objet_ on several occasions, but now his curiosity overwhelmed him.

"_Sensei_, what is that painting?"

Mrs. Harroway, startled, followed his gaze. "It's a poem," she explained. "A haiku by the poet Basho."

He looked at her quizzically. She padded toward the painting, gesturing for him to join her.

"It says:

'Not this human sadness,

cuckoo,

but your solitary cry,'"

she read, running her finger lightly down the scroll. "My mother painted this for me a long time ago. She was studying Japanese calligraphy."

Walter indicated a set of characters separate from the main body of the poem. "What does this say here?" he asked.

"That's my name," she answered simply.

"April?" he breathed without thinking, then bit his tongue at the insolence.

She smiled indulgently. "April is my legal name, yes. But my mother used my Japanese name when she painted this. The name my father gave me."

He examined the characters as if they might yield their meaning to him. "What is it?"

"Naoko."

"_Nah_-oh-koh," Walter repeated, trying the unfamiliar syllables with his mouth. He thought it was beautiful, a name for some exotic Oriental princess. He pictured Mrs. Harroway kneeling on a dais in socked feet; she wore a colorful and elaborate kimono, and costly pins decorated her smooth hair. "Naoko."

Her delighted laughter tinkled softly in the _dojo_. She raised herself on tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss on his lips. Walter watched her pace back into the center of the mat. His throat felt tight.

"I would teach you a few sacrifice throws tonight, but you do bruise so easily," she announced, cocking an eye at him in the mirror.

"_Sensei_, I don't mind. I want to learn," he insisted. And besides, he knew what pleasure she took in his bruised flesh. He knelt before her eagerly.

"You misunderstand me, dearest," she responded, smiling down at him. "I may have bought you that lovely suit, but there may come a time on Friday evening when I ask you to disrobe. At least in part."

Walter looked stricken. She reached down to stroke the shell of his ear gently with her thumb. He grimaced, knowing that he would do whatever she asked of him, even if there were other people present.

"I shouldn't like the others to think that I treat you so viciously."

"They can think what they like," he growled. "I don't belong to _them_."

He did not fully realize what he had said until she was kneeling in front of him with his face in her hands. Her dark eyes shone. He bowed his head under the beautiful intensity of her gaze.

"Do you know, darling, the party does not begin until ten. And I'd hate to arrive too early. Perhaps you'd like to make a night of it." Her airy tone did not fool him in the least. "'King Lear' is playing. We could have a light theater supper, then go to the show. The party would be in full swing, so to speak, when we arrived."

Walter looked up, smiling despite himself.

"I know it's a great deal of time for you to commit, since I only-"

"Yes," he said simply.

"Yes?"

He nodded.

The kiss she drew him into was deep and sweet and slow, and Walter hung from her lips like a drowning man.

****

A/N: The translation of Basho was written by Robert Hass (former U.S. Poet Laureate). He rocks my socks. :D


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I need to give a little shout-out to Katie Havok. There is at least ONE scene in here that I think she will enjoy. Hope everyone else does, too! -ab

******

"Show me your hands," she murmured on Tuesday, guiding him down to kneel before the sofa.

Walter obeyed, and she eyed his knuckles critically. The deep scrapes had scabbed to such an extent by this morning that he had not bandaged them. Mrs. Harroway dropped a light kiss on each injured joint. Then her eyes flicked toward the mantel.

"There's a present for you over there."

Surprised, he turned his head.

"Go on!"

Walter rose and approached the fireplace. A slim box rested on the mantel. A small card lay on top; it read "for Walter" in her careful, looping script. He looked back at her shyly. Mrs. Harroway laughed and waved an encouraging hand at him. Licking his lips, Walter set the card aside and lifted the top of the box. Inside, he found a pair of gloves, made of a black leather so smooth it shone like oil. He turned, gloves in hand, to see her lips twitching with amusement. He grinned, acknowledging her sense of humor.

"Try them on."

Walter did so with a will. He flexed his fingers, and the leather creaked, molding itself to the shape of his hands. The gloves were warm and flexible: a second, hardier skin.

"They're wonderful," Walter said. Rorschach grumbled in agreement, realizing full well the gloves' utility. "Thank you, ma'am."

"No knight should be without gauntlets," she told him. He could not say whether she was teasing or not. "Now come around behind the sofa, darling. I have a knot in my shoulder."

He began to work the gloves off his fingers, feeling slightly nervous. He had never massaged anyone's muscles before.

"No. Leave those on."

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Walter stepped behind the divan. The view was certainly a pleasant one. He had laced Mrs. Harroway into her corset immediately upon entering the room; now he looked down on the plump swell of her breasts above the leather. Her black suede skirt was riding up to reveal the top of her stocking and its garter. She inclined her head forward slightly, and the knobs of her spine appeared. He brushed his finger gently over the mole on her shoulder. She shivered. He gripped her bare shoulders loosely. She sighed. Walter hesitated before applying any pressure. She was a strong woman for her size, but he did not want to hurt her. He decided it was safest to start very lightly. He rubbed ever so gently, exploring the structure of her muscles and bones. The knot she had mentioned was immediately obvious. He probed it with his thumb.

"Mm, yes, there, darling," she murmured.

He pushed a little harder. Her soft moan sent heat flooding into his loins. Cautiously, he applied more pressure, moving his thumb in a circular motion. Mrs. Harroway's head lolled forward, and her body rocked slightly as he rubbed. Thumb still kneading the knot, he squeezed his fingers on her shoulders to massage her taut sinews. He let her throaty noises of pleasure guide him.

Soon the knot began to dissolve, and Walter grew bolder. His thumbs moved along either side of her spine, loosening the muscles in her neck. He tilted his hands forward until his fingertips could brush the top of her breasts. She yielded liquidly under his touch. Holding his breath, he reached down to cover with his gloved hands the fleshy mounds thrust upward by her corset. He leaned down to brush his lips against the nape of her neck. Her tiny gasp was barely audible. Emboldened, he flicked his tongue out to tickle the sensitive flesh, and she trembled. The scent of peaches and leather filled his nostrils maddeningly.

Her fingers closed around his hand with such speed that he had not seen her move. He froze, breath hot on her neck.

"Downstairs," she commanded hoarsely. "The door on the left. Take off _everything_. Go."

Walter stumbled into the hallway without looking back and pulled open the basement door. On the right lay the _dojo_, but on the left crouched a room whose purpose he had never divined. He descended the stairs, stomach churning, erection still swelling in his trousers. He turned the knob of the door on the left and looked around curiously. Upon entering the _dojo_, he had been able to discern its use immediately. But he had never seen anything remotely like this room before. The floor was bare concrete, and the walls were covered with thick curtains; he twitched one aside to find nothing but plaster behind it. He turned his attention to the furniture in the room, if such it could be called. In one corner stood an antique-looking full-length mirror. The dark mahogany of its construction was like nothing else in the brownstone. There was a cabinet like a dry bar against one curtained wall. Near this, a chain that ended in a solid steel O-ring dangled from the ceiling. Three bench-like pieces, each a slightly different variation on the same theme, filled most of the open space in the room. Walter's lust, curiosity, and fear vied for supremacy as he stared around him.

Suddenly he heard Mrs. Harroway's steps on the floor above him, and he began to strip himself as frantically as a child caught dressing up in his father's clothes. He was completely aware of how ridiculous his reaction to her approach was, yet he could not stop himself.

_She has trained me well_, he thought ruefully, slipping to his knees on the cold concrete.

Mrs. Harroway stalked into the room, and Walter's member twitched in traitorously obvious response. She glared at him as she took a seat on one of the benches, which looked vaguely like an old-fashioned student desk.

"Back straight. Eyes down."

He complied, focusing on her slim, stockinged ankles. His heart was pounding.

"It's a delight to see that my submissive has learned so well in such a short period of time. And looking so...virile...besides."

Walter blushed.

"But arousal is no excuse for sloppiness. I will not have my submissive slouch, nor will I have him staring brazenly at me. At the party on Friday, I expect you to walk slightly behind me and to kneel beside me if I stop for any significant length of time. You will keep your back straight and your eyes down. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You respect me by respecting yourself," she explained, her voice softening just a little.

"Yes, ma'am," he said fervently.

Mrs. Harroway was silent for a long moment. Walter's knees began to ache on the cold, hard floor. He used the pain to calm himself. He slipped slowly down into that submissive place.

"It pleases me that you are so strong and stubborn, dearest. I should not want you if you were less yourself."

He pondered this riddle dreamily until he realized that she had risen to her feet. Mrs. Harroway went to the low cabinet and removed something. Walter dared not turn his head to see what it was.

"Come here."

He crawled over to resume his kneeling posture at her feet. He made sure to throw his shoulders back. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Her breath tickled him, and he shivered.

"I'm going to give you a challenge, darling. I have every confidence that you can succeed. Now put your hands behind your back."

With a mingling of terror and desire, Walter pressed his wrists together above his buttocks. He expected rope, as before, but this time she snapped a set of handcuffs on him. He tested their strength surreptitiously by tensing his triceps. There was no way he could break them open.

"Now," she said, and he could hear the devilish smile in her voice, "remove my stockings."

Walter's jaw dropped. This was not what he had been expecting. He could not have said exactly what he _had _expected, but this was not it. Did she want him to escape the cuffs? Or was he supposed to turn his back on her and perform the operation with bound hands? What did she have in mind? The panic was choking him. Walter took slow breaths, settling down into that submissive space, and the answer suddenly came to him. He could hear the delight in Mrs. Harroway's laugh as he scooted close to her and nudged the slit in her skirt open with his nose. He closed his teeth carefully over the tab of her garter. Some minor maneuvering, and the garter popped free.

"Bravo," Mrs. Harroway murmured huskily.

Heartened, Walter turned to her other thigh. Unfortunately, the first garter had been the easiest. The others were concealed under her suede skirt. A gleeful smile parting his lips, he burrowed his face into the slit of her skirt. She smelled of leather and silk and flesh and powder and that earthy scent that he knew was her sex. His erection pulsed eagerly in response. Somehow he managed to hold the suede high enough up with his nose that he could grasp the tab of this garter with his lips. He tilted his chin up to undo the fastening. The motion exposed her panties to his gaze. White lace, through which he could just make out the shadow of her dark curls. Walter's mouth went dry.

"Halfway there," she encouraged.

He could tell that she was enjoying his predicament no end. Shuffling his knees, he scooted around behind her and found himself staring at her curvy buttocks. His eyes moved down over her muscular calves to the high heels of her shoes. He stifled a groan of desire.

The suede seemed a bit looser on the right side, where the slit lay in the front, so Walter decided to tackle that garter first. A handful of fumbled attempts to raise the hem of her skirt and keep it up while he undid the clasp showed that this would be more difficult than anticipated.

Was it his imagination, or was the scent of her sex growing stronger as he labored?

Mrs. Harroway cried out in surprise as Walter thrust his head under her skirt to seek the intended garter with his mouth. The first sortie left his nose buried in the cleft of her lace-clad buttocks. She giggled. Walter could not restrain his own amusement and burst into laughter. Unfortunately, this made him lose his grip on the suede, and the skirt slid back down over the garter. Sighing theatrically, he pushed under again and kissed his way from the inside of her thigh to the tab. He felt her hamstring and gluteus clench against his face. Experimentally, he slipped his tongue out to stroke the flesh of her thigh above the stocking. She rewarded him with a sharp intake of breath. He mouthed the garter tab lazily, taking his time about it.

Her scent was definitely getting stronger.

When the tab popped open, he clasped the top of her stocking carefully between his lips and drew it down her leg. As he reached her ankle, Mrs. Harroway stepped out of her shoe and balanced on her other foot so he could tug the stocking completely off. He licked the bare flesh of her calf, then the back of her knee. She gasped with pleasure, and he trailed slowly up her thigh. Once more he ducked under her skirt to reach the fourth and final garter tab. He was in no hurry, however, so it hurt no one if he nibbled her buttock lightly along the hem of her lace panties in the course of his quest. Was she trembling? Walter mouthed the garter fastening and skillfully undid it. His mistress moaned softly as he pulled her stocking down.

At last she stood before him barelegged, and he nuzzled the smooth skin of her thigh with his cheek. Her fingers stroked his hair lovingly.

"Well done, my clever darling," she sighed. "Now let's get you out of those cuffs. You're going to need your hands."

She retrieved the key and undid the handcuffs, then kissed the slight redness that had appeared on each of his wrists. She trailed her fingertips down his arms to his chest. Floating happily, Walter stared at her stockings on the floor.

"It seems you enjoyed that as much as I did," Mrs. Harroway teased.

Her hand slid down to give his erection the lightest of caresses. His entire body twitched in response. She perched gracefully on the bench again and crossed her bare legs demurely at the ankle. Her hands lay clasped in her lap.

"Do you want to please me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he begged.

"Then stroke yourself."

Walter's head snapped up, and he stared at her in shock. She met his gaze levelly. She was serious.

"Ma'am?"

"You heard me. Stroke yourself."

"Ma'am, I..."

"Do not play the innocent," she scoffed. "You know what to do."

"I don't like to do that," he stammered, utterly bewildered. "I don't want to."

"What you want is of no consequence," she drawled. Her posture had in no way changed, but her presence was vastly more commanding. "You are mine, and so is your prick."

He winced at her final word and stared at the ground miserably.

"You will obey me, or you will be punished."

Walter's eyes were pricking with tears. He whipped his head back and forth. _No_.

"Very well," she sighed. "Kneel on this bench."

Mrs. Harroway rose and made way for him to take the spot she had just occupied. Walter set his knees on the wood. She pushed him forward until his forearms rested on the hard platform in front of him. His bottom was woefully exposed. He bit his lip as she stroked his backside.

"I'm going to punish you," she said quietly.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, fighting tears.

"I'm not angry with you, darling," she assured him. She continued to rub his bottom soothingly, caressing his upper thighs and lower back, settling him.

Walter relaxed under her touch. She was not mad at him. She would not send him away. He had disobeyed her, and he would be punished. It was justice, fair and simple. His mistress was in control. She would not harm him. He was safe.

"Yes, just submit. That's best," she purred. "Now I need to fetch something."

He rested his forehead on his arms as he had when she flogged him. This would be no different. He listened to her opening and shutting the cabinet against the wall. Then he felt cool leather against his buttocks.

"It's a crop," she explained. "I could spank you with my hand, but I am not strong enough to punish you in the way you need to be punished."

Walter pictured the firm muscles of her upper arms and swallowed nervously. He startled as her fingers slipped between his thighs to press lightly on his scrotum.

"Tuck yourself forward, darling, and close your thighs."

He winced at the thought of the crop swatting him on what his boxing coach had always called 'the pills' and obeyed her quickly.

The first swat was light, but he remembered how she had flogged him and knew that it would progress. He breathed himself down into his submissive space. He would accept her judgment for his disobedience. As he had anticipated, the crop began to move faster and harder. Soon the sting had grown from uncomfortable to painful. From time to time, Mrs. Harroway would pause to rub a sore spot with her hand and comment how beautiful his buttocks looked with her marks on them. Walter found that he was proud of the fair skin he had once loathed; his mistress enjoyed the way it welted so. He gulped down grunts of pain as she struck him forcefully. Still, he sensed that she was holding some strength in reserve.

But she never unleashed her full power on him. After some unknown time, he heard the crop clatter to the floor. He smelled menthol, and he felt her rubbing some kind of cooling lotion on his backside. It tingled, adding to the general euphoria that was trickling through his body. Walter knew enough about pain to realize that this high was merely endorphins flooding his nervous system, but it seemed like so much more.

Then Mrs. Harroway made a sniffling noise, and he whirled around in horror. She smiled back at him tearfully; her eyes were dark and unreadable. Walter took the blanket she was holding and wrapped it around both of them. Her arms snaked around his waist, and he held her against him, tucking her head under his chin.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he murmured.


	12. Chapter 12

He stripped off Rorschach and bathed quickly. He was exhausted. Too tired for pyjamas, certainly. He crawled gratefully under the covers and lay back, abandoning himself to sleep.

But sleep did not come.

His body ached, and his mind raced. One more judo session tonight. And then...tomorrow....Walter fully expected Friday to be the longest day of his life. An entire eight hours at work anticipating the evening. With dinner, the play, and the party, he was guaranteed at least five hours of time with Mrs. Harroway. What would they talk about? Would there be awkward silences? Or would he embarrass himself terribly? And what would she want from him at the party? What would she order him to do?

He worried that his failure the night before had eroded her faith in him. Whatever had possessed him to refuse her? His body was hers. All of it. Every part. Including the part that stood to attention now in a continuation of the near-constant arousal he had experienced this week. He squeezed the offending organ angrily.

_Stroke it._

Walter curled onto his side and slammed his fist against the mattress. His bruised knuckles wailed. He was grateful for the pain.

_Do not play the innocent. You know what to do_.

He covered his head with his hands. He could not seem to get her smell out of his nostrils.

Do you want to please me?

_Yes, ma'am._

Clenching his teeth, he jumped out of bed and stomped into the bathroom. He flipped the light switch. A skinny, orange-haired kid stared back at him from the mirror. Freckles. An oddly-shaped nose. Ears so big that his head looked like a taxicab driving down the street with the doors open. With grim determination, Walter returned to the main room of his apartment and grabbed his wooden chair. He set it down in front of the sink in the bathroom, breathing heavily. He ignored the face in the mirror.

"Yes, ma'am, I want to please you," he whispered, then stepped up onto the seat of the chair.

From this height the mirror showed his body from belly to mid-shin. He studied himself, wondering what Mrs. Harroway saw when she looked at him. It could not be much. But she had wanted to watch him touch himself. Why? He tilted his head, staring at his reflection as his hand closed around his erection. What was so fascinating about this? He had seen monkeys doing this at the Bronx Zoo. Did she stand around watching them handle themselves?

He snorted at the notion and tried to picture the calm power of her face when she had ordered him to stroke himself. The sight of her white lace panties kept intruding. The garters dangling against the muscles of her thighs. Her bare skin revealed as he peeled the stockings from her legs.

His erection pulsed insistently. Growling, he jumped down from the chair and dragged it back to the table. The tenant downstairs banged on the ceiling; he stomped back angrily. Flipping open Rorschach's journal, he slammed himself into the chair to write.

*****

"Ma'am?" he ventured as they left the _dojo_ that night.

Mrs. Harroway flipped her braid back over her shoulder as she turned, one foot on the bottom stair, to face him.

"I want to apologize. For my failure last night."

She watched him. Her silence encouraged him to continue.

"I...shouldn't have disobeyed you." Walter stared down at the floor and twisted the floppy ends of his belt into a knot. "It won't happen again."

"Yes, it will," she said softly.

He looked up, brows knit.

Mrs. Harroway stepped forward and put her hand on his cheek. Her dark eyes bored into his. "It _will _happen again, because you are a powerful man, my dearest. You have strong beliefs, and you do not entirely trust me yet."

"I trust you!" Walter insisted. "I do!"

She shook her head sympathetically. "Don't worry, darling. It takes time."

He grabbed her hand from his face and pulled her, walking backward to that other door. "Let me prove it to you. I'll do what you asked."

"That's not necessary," she said, almost sadly.

"Please," Walter begged. He clutched at the doorknob behind him and led her into the curtained room. The cold of the concrete under his feet was startling and familiar. "I want to. I _need_ to."

"Dearest," she soothed him. "You're not even ha- oh!" She cried out in surprise as he placed her hand on his erection. He was, most decidedly, hard. Stepping close, she put her lips to his ear and gently massaged the bulge in his _gi_. "Why are you hard now?"

"Because I want to please you, ma'am," he gasped.

Mrs. Harroway withdrew her hand. She cocked her head, contemplating him. Walter waited breathlessly. At last she took a seat on the school-desk bench where she had cropped him and unfastened her belt, allowing the jacket of her _gi_ to fall open. He gaped at the thin white undershirt that was doing its valiant best to restrain her full breasts. The shape of her nipples was clearly visible through the cotton. She smiled at his obvious interest and shrugged completely out of the jacket. Her voice fell low and cool in the air: "Strip."

Walter wrestled out of his _gi_, and, when he was fully naked, knelt on the concrete. His erection jutted out proudly. His heart pounded in his chest. He knew he was staring at her breasts, but he could not look away. She rested her elbows on the desk part of the bench behind her; the position thrust her bosom up and forward. Walter's mouth went dry with desire.

"Stroke it," she ordered softly.

He clasped his erection in his fist and began to pump slowly. He had been so hard for so long that he almost immediately felt his climax surfacing. The prospect of imminent relief made him want to weep with joy and gratitude. He allowed his eyelids to flutter halfway down as he drank in the sight of her breasts.

Mrs. Harroway stared fixedly, her face betraying nothing. "How many times have you done this, say, in the last week?" she asked conversationally.

Walter shook his head wildly.

"You haven't?" she translated, one slim eyebrow raised in surprise. "Not once?"

Another head shake.

She pursed her lips. "I might be a little offended, dearest."

"Oh, but I've _wanted _to, ma'am," he blurted. "I've wanted to so badly."

"So why did you not?"

He groaned as the pleasure started blooming through his loins.

"Not yet. Not until I say."

Walter bent forward over his member, gasping with desperation. His shoulders shook.

"Don't you dare," she barked, leaning forward. "Or I'll put a ring on you that will really keep you hard all the time."

"Please, ma'am," he begged hoarsely.

"You haven't done this because you didn't have permission, isn't that right?"

"I don't like to do it."

"No. But it's all right if I tell you to do it, isn't that so?"

He nodded, grimacing.

"Well, I could give a damn if you _like_ to do it. I want you to do it. I want to watch you."

Walter was terrified, sure that he could not hold it. He was going to let go, he was going to come, and she would think he was weak, and she would punish him again, and all he wanted was to make her love him, and there was no way she would love him now, because he was weak, weak and lustful, and he could not even perform a simple task for her, and-

"Now, darling."

She was sitting forward with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hands. A smile curved the corner of her mouth, and she was watching him with that expression that made him want to want to explode out of his skin. His breath hitched as he pumped his fist faster.

"Thank you, ma'am," Walter gasped.

He worked himself furiously. The need built inside him; his body shook with tension. Then he flung his head back, and he was pulsing with ecstasy and release. He whimpered, eyelids fluttering shut. He thought her heard her sigh. At last, wrung out and exhausted, he sagged. Mrs. Harroway was stepping carefully over his _gi_ and the sloppy mess he had made on the floor. She stroked the short hairs at the back of his neck. Walter slumped forward and clung to her leg adoringly.

"What a lovely end to the evening," she murmured happily. She bent to kiss the top of his head and then extricated herself from his grasp. Her voice trailed down to him as she climbed the stairs: "Good night, dearest."


	13. Chapter 13

Mrs. Harroway opened the door and stepped back into the hallway. Removing his hat shyly, Walter entered the brownstone as if he had never been there before. She stared at him wordlessly, her full lips parted. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. At last she placed a hand over her breast and sighed.

"Cary Grant, eat your heart out," she breathed.

Walter blushed and ran his fingers through his newly-shorn hair. He had set himself the task of undergoing a professional barbering, including hot-towel shave, after work. To his surprise, he had enjoyed the pampering.

_I'm becoming quite the hedonist_, he had told himself bitterly as his pores opened gratefully to the moist heat.

Mrs. Harroway took him by the hand to draw him into the front room. There was no fire in the grate tonight, but he could see her clearly in the lamplight. Her neck, bare except for a diamond pendant dangling from a slender white gold chain, looked graceful and delicious above a midnight blue cocktail dress. Matching diamond studs pierced her earlobes. The front of her dress cut down in a wide vee to her bosom; a corresponding vee exposed her back. Her soft, dark hair was swept into a wavy updo that suited her face admirably. Walter removed his gloves, dropping them along with his hat onto the chair, and bent to kiss her hand. The act did not make him feel in the least self-conscious.

"You look beautiful," he said honestly.

She smiled and pulled him down beside her on the sofa.

"I've called for a taxi; it should be here any minute." Her eyes roved over him eagerly, and she stroked his lapels, biting her full lower lip. "But maybe I should just keep you here for myself."

Walter knew she was teasing him, but he could think of nothing more wonderful than the look on her face as she watched him now. He hardly allowed himself to believe this was real. But then Mrs. Harroway reached up a hand to stroke his cheek, and there was something dark behind her eyes.

"Darling," she began, with a hint of that quaver he had heard in her voice only rarely. "Before we go, there's something..."

"Anything," he murmured encouragingly, leaning toward her.

She pressed her lips together. Her speech was oddly halting. "This is our first time out in public together, dearest, and I wonder...I wonder if it will look strange that I'm...wearing a ring. And you're not."

Walter closed his eyes for a long moment. They had never spoken of her wedding ring. He had tried diligently to forget that it even existed.

"Couldn't you just take it off?" he suggested in a voice that sounded small even to his own ears.

Her eyes seemed unusually bright as she shook her head. She pulled her ring up to the knuckle to show him the band of white flesh that lay under it. It was clear that the absence of her wedding ring might be more noticeable and shocking than its presence. He frowned at the problem.

"I'm going to suggest something," Mrs. Harroway continued softly, "but don't feel that you have to acquiesce. This decision will be totally and completely yours, without consequences from me. Do you understand?"

Walter nodded warily.

Mrs. Harroway reached for a small velvet bag that lay on the end table. Opening the drawstring mouth, she poured out a man's golden wedding band. Walter's heart dropped into his stomach and fluttered there like an injured bird.

"Is that _his_?" he moaned.

Her eyes flew wide with surprise. "Oh, no!" she replied, shaking her head emphatically. "No! No, I wouldn't...I couldn't!"

Her words had made breathing less difficult, but still not easy.

"Besides: James' mother insisted that he be buried wearing his ring."

Walter cocked his head at her tone. It took him a moment to realize what she had said.

_James. His name was James._

"You didn't agree?" he asked curiously. "You didn't want him buried in the ring?"

"What does a corpse want with a wedding ring?"

He stared at her. She had spoken calmly and sensibly, but not coldly. He nodded his understanding.

"This ring I selected just for you. I hope it's the right size."

Walter eyed the gold band that sat on her palm and realized that her hand was shaking. He hated her fear. He wanted her strong and confident once more. And, too, he wanted to wear her ring. "Yes," he hissed.

"What?" she gasped incredulously.

He held out his left hand. Still trembling, Mrs. Harroway picked up the ring between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes flicked to his for confirmation. He nodded curtly. She slipped the ring onto his third finger; it slid down over his knuckle, then nestled firmly at the base of his finger. It fit him perfectly. She stroked her thumb over the band, her own ring glinting in the light. Walter stared at their hands in awe.

A car horn honked from outside. Startled, they both glanced at the front door.

"That will be the taxi," Mrs. Harroway said crisply. She rose and smoothed her dress.

Much relieved, Walter snatched up his hat and gloves and followed her into the hall.

*****

He felt like someone else as she took his arm to walk into the theater. Like the luckiest man in the world. Or James Harroway. She kept smiling up at him, her little gloved hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. In fact, she had been smiling at him all evening: in the taxi, over dinner, on the sidewalk. He was beginning to feel giddy, as if from being in the sun too long.

Walter had sat stiffly at their table in the restaurant until she taunted him into a lively discussion about the connections between ethics and aesthetics. Dark eyes flashing, she had quoted Oscar Wilde to him. He had sputtered in disbelief and waved his salad fork at her while declaiming his response. He had won the argument, but only by throwing her into convulsive fits of laughter so powerful that she was wiping her eyes with her napkin when the waiter brought their entrees.

Less than three hours later Walter was stifling tears as they watched Lear carry the corpse of his wronged daughter Cordelia in his arms. Walter covered his mouth, ashamed to weep, and managed to choke back the worst of it. Mrs. Harroway squeezed his hand. Her eyes, too, were bright as the tragic king collapsed upon the stage. He clapped like a maniac when the actors took their curtain calls.

In the taxicab, she leaned against his shoulder. The driver, a good New Yorker, ignored them completely. The lights of the city rippled over them, and Walter tried out the words of the Bard: "Oh, you are men of stones. Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so that heaven's vault should crack."

Mrs. Harroway kissed his cheek and whispered into his ear: "Are you ready for this, my darling?"

He nodded and shifted their positions so his arm was around her. He stroked her neck softly with his gloved fingertips.

"You will see things tonight that may shock you," she murmured. "But I beg you to remember that all participants in these activities are consenting adults."

"How do you know?"

"Most dominants employ a 'safe word', darling. When spoken by the submissive, this word halts anything that is going on."

"What kinds of words are used?"

"Oh, it depends," she replied. "Obviously, it can't be 'no' or 'stop'. It should be something unusual, something one would not normally say in the course of play."

"How about 'asparagus'?"

She giggled with him. "Yes, darling. But the most common one is 'red'."

"Like a traffic light."

"Exactly," she said, planting a laudatory kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Walter hesitated before asking. "What is _our_ word?"

Mrs. Harroway snuggled her hand into the gap of his overcoat. "If you ever feel uncomfortable, darling, _ever_, but particularly tonight, you may say 'yellow'. That will make me slow down. But there is only one way to make me stop, and you know what that is."

"Dissolve our contract."

"Yes," she breathed.

He swallowed miserably. The only way to make her stop would be to leave forever, and he could not even encompass that thought with his brain right now. He clasped her hand to his chest and cuddled her body against him. He wished the ride would last forever.

But all too soon they were tumbling out of the cab into the frozen night and tripping up the steps of a beautiful house with light peeking through the drawn curtains. Walter rang the doorbell.

"Be cool, daddy-o," Mrs. Harroway murmured, smiling.

He just had time to smile back before the door opened.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: MATURE content, including some pain play.

*****

"Daphne, how lovely to see you!" Mrs. Harroway exclaimed in her low, pleasant voice to the young woman who opened the door to them.

"Good evening, ma'am," Daphne responded in a tone that managed to sound both submissive and saucy. She kept her eyes down in speaking to Mrs. Harroway, but her gaze cut to the side to stare frankly at Walter. She was wearing some parody of a maid's uniform that was far too short for a woman with such long legs. Walter tried to avoid looking at her garters, which peeked merrily out at him, and instead focused on helping Mrs. Harroway out of her coat. He tucked his leather gloves securely into an inside pocket before handing his own overcoat to Daphne.

"David keeps two women in this house, and he cannot control either of them," Mrs. Harroway scolded in an undertone as the young woman sauntered off with their outerwear.

"Is she his wife, ma'am?"

"No. His wife is Anna; she should be here somewhere. Daphne is his submissive."

Walter pondered the circumstances that would lead a woman to permit her husband to keep his mistress in their home. Was it similar to that polygamy practiced in certain civilizations? Did all three sleep in the same room? Were there children in the house? Did some belong to one woman and some to the other?

His attention was distracted by the array of people gathered in the large dining room into which Mrs. Harroway led him. His brain could scarcely process the details that surrounded him. Roughly fifteen people, of all shapes, sizes, and races, filled the room. Several were dressed in eveningwear like himself and Mrs. Harroway; a few wore what appeared to be costumes of some kind; a handful were practically naked. His horrified attention was drawn by a voluptuous woman of middle-age bound with some kind of net all over her arms and torso; the twisted rope dug into her mocha-colored skin and pouted her breasts forward into fleshy teardrops. Mrs. Harroway followed his eyes.

"Japanese rope bondage," she murmured, turning her head. "The style focuses less on restraint and more on aesthetics."

Walter was forced to admit that the woman's body affected him strangely, like a work of art that he did not fully understand. He allowed himself to examine her circumspectly and noticed a leather necklace connected to a chain. The other end of the slim chain was clasped in the hand of a chubby, jovial man who wore a dark suit. No, not a necklace: a collar, like a dog's. Walter's eyes scanned the room. In most cases it was easy to distinguish between submissives and dominants, and a large number of the former wore collars like the bound woman's.

"Ma'am," he whispered.

"Yes, dear?"

"Many of the other submissives seem to be wearing collars."

She flashed a small smile at him. "Very observant, my darling. Yes, some of them are wearing a true collar, which indicates a lasting commitment between dominant and submissive."

"Like a wedding ring?" he asked slyly.

Mrs. Harroway's eyes flashed, but she chose to ignore his insolence. "Most of them, however, are wearing temporary collars, just for this evening."

"For show?"

"No, not justfor show. It engenders a sense of belonging for the submissive and a sense of possession for the dominant."

Mrs. Harroway seemed as if she might continue, but she was interrupted by the approach of a tall woman with light brown hair piled above her sharp-featured face.

"April!" the woman cried, greeting Mrs. Harroway with a kiss on the cheek. "How lovely to see you."

"You look wonderful, Anna. Thank you so much for having us. The house is beautiful as always."

Anna smiled graciously, her eyes flicking toward Walter. He straightened his back and kept his eyes low.

"This is Walter," Mrs. Harroway explained.

Walter inclined his head in a slight bow, uncertain what else was appropriate under the circumstances.

Anna seemed to accept this motion. "Welcome," she said kindly. "I'm afraid that we moved refreshments to the kitchen, April. Lord Darcy has rather taken over the table in here."

"I had noticed," Mrs. Harroway replied dryly.

Uncharacteristically overwhelmed by the details of the room, Walter had not noticed the little passion play that was being enacted on Anna's dining room table. A short man wearing a puffy white shirt with neck ruffles was hissing into the ear of the half-naked woman who lay before him, hands tucked behind her head in a posture that reminded one of a lazy picnicker. Or a criminal waiting for police to search him. Without warning, the white-shirted man (presumably Lord Darcy) raised a crop in one hand and struck the woman on one of her small breasts. The woman's ruddy face crumpled with pain. Walter watched in amazement as a red welt rose on the still-wobbling fatty tissue. Darcy struck a second time, and a third. The slim blonde on the table cried out at each blow. From his own experiences, Walter knew what to expect next, and he was not disappointed. The crop began to move faster, striking with more speed and force. Every fourth or fifth blow would land smartly on one of the blonde's nipples. Soon the woman was weeping loudly, begging in jagged breaths for mercy.

Mrs. Harroway's cool hand slithered back to press lightly against Walter's wrist. _This woman consented_, her touch said. _She has the power to end this, if she truly wants to._

He asked himself if he would submit to such treatment if Mrs. Harroway ordered it. The answer, naturally, was 'yes'. Clenching his jaw, Walter slid to his knees at his lady's side. Her hand came to rest companionably on the back of his neck. His discomfort subsided as her thumb stroked him.

"You filthy cow!" Darcy bellowed at his importunate submissive, flecks of saliva spraying from his lips. "You evil goddamned bitch! Shut your mouth. Shut it! Or I'll stick my fucking cock in there!"

"I think it rather early in the evening for such an intense scene," commented a mellifluous voice to Mrs. Harroway's left. "But I don't particularly care for that rough stuff anyway."

"Don't be so coy, Quill," Mrs. Harroway teased, kissing the well-dressed man. The cut of his brown suit was too modern and flamboyant for Walter's taste, but he recognized its fashionable style. The green pocket square was an odd touch, however.

"Quill, this is my Walter."

Walter flushed at the possessive adjective. Once again, he inclined his head.

"A pleasure. Walter."

Quill added the name with a touch of amusement. His voice was rich and smooth; in fact, it put Walter in mind of Orson Welles'. Walter let the dulcet tones play over him and turned his attention back to the scene being enacted on the dining room table. Darcy was threatening his submissive with two small pieces of metal attached together by a chain. Walter squinted at the ends and was able to identify them as alligator clips, such as a dentist uses to hold the paper bib around a patient's neck. The blonde woman whimpered with fear. Walter could not imagine to what purpose Darcy would put the clips, but the dominant soon made this clear: with cool deliberation, Darcy clamped one of the alligator clips onto each of his submissive's much-abused nipples. Walter winced in sympathy as the blonde emitted a keening hum of pain.

"The worst is yet to come."

It took Walter a moment to realize that the distinguished man named Quill was addressing him. He tilted his head to acknowledge that he was listening.

"Nasty things, those clips. When he takes them off, the blood will rush back in. It's quite painful."

"Heavens, yes," Mrs. Harroway sighed.

Walter barely restrained himself from looking up at her knowing tone. He wondered, not for the first time, if she had ever acted as a submissive. Had she suffered the same torture now being experienced by Darcy's little blonde? And would she ever inflict them on Walter?

"Lord, he's _really_ pulling out all the stops, isn't he?" Quill muttered cattily.

Walter looked back to the table, where Darcy had lit a white pillar candle. The dominant spent another minute or two verbally degrading and excoriating his submissive. Then he lifted the candle and tilted it over her midsection. Walter shivered as hot wax cascaded onto the blonde's ribcage, pooling and hardening as it trickled along her skin. Mrs. Harroway's hand, which had been still for some time, returned to stroking his neck; Walter's reaction had not gone unnoticed by his mistress. The hot wax made him curious. Would it be so painful? Or would it feel more like the hot towel the barber had laid on his face that afternoon?

Darcy bent to search through a bag that sat on the floor next to his feet. He started to rise with an object in his hand, but Walter, from his vantage point, could not make out what it was.

"Don't even think about it, Darcy," announced a deep voice on the other side of the room.

Darcy righted himself, frowning. Walter saw now that the dominant held a scalpel in his right hand.

"House rules: no knifeplay."

The crowd parted slightly, and Walter could see the man who had spoken. He was tall and well-built, hair cut short as a military man's. His sleeves were rolled up, and Walter noticed a tattoo of some sort on the man's forearm.

Darcy opened his mouth to argue, and Mrs. Harroway grasped her submissive's shoulder.

"I'd like a drink," she murmured.

Walter rose and followed her, at two respectful paces, down a wood-paneled corridor to the kitchen. They passed a youth of about twenty, nude except for a white linen kilt of the sort that Walter had seen in Egyptian art and a black handkerchief knotted around his right ankle. The young man's hair was dark and curly. His eyes were rimmed with kohl. He ducked his head to Mrs. Harroway.

"Good evening, Hart," she responded pleasantly. She turned her face slightly toward Walter as she entered the deserted kitchen. "A mineral water, please, darling."

He hurried to fetch some ice from the bucket and pour her drink from a bottle that rested on the countertop. After a questioning glance that was answered with a nod, he poured himself a glass without ice. Mrs. Harroway took a sip, a slight smile curving her lips.

"How are you, dearest?" she asked solicitously.

"Fine, ma'am," he answered, smiling back.

"You have questions?"

"Yes, ma'am. Who was that man just now? The one who stopped Darcy?"

"Every sensible host chooses one person to...police the gathering. To ensure that things do not get out of hand. Some like to call this person 'the dungeon master'." She rolled her eyes. "I find the title a little purple for my taste. But I understand that Brick is actually an M.P., so I suppose David made an excellent choice."

Walter nodded his comprehension, then tumbled into his next question: "And that black handkerchief...?"

"The one Hart was wearing?"

"Yes, ma'am. Your friend Quill was wearing a green one. Does it mean something?"

"Indeed it does, my darling detective."

Walter blushed at the moniker.

"You will notice that Hart wears his black hanky on the right," she explained. "The color black signifies interest in submission/domination play; the right side is reserved for submissives. Likewise, Quill wears his hanky on the left, because he is a so-called 'top'. That kelly green signals to young men that Quill is a daddy looking for a boy."

"A daddy...? Oh." Walter looked away and took a nervous sip of his drink.

"It was the queens who devised the code in the first place, dearest."

"But you have to be careful," drawled a woman with short brown hair in the Estuary accent of a native Londoner. She leaned on the doorframe casually. "The colors aren't standardized. Had a friend who went to Los Angeles and got himself into a spot of trouble with a _brown_ hanky."

Mrs. Harroway chuckled lightly. The brunette winked saucily at Walter, then approached his mistress. She wore trousers, shirt, and tie, but her face, delicate and beautiful, belied the masculinity of her dress. She stood about as tall as Walter himself so that Mrs. Harroway had to look up when the woman stood directly in front of her, moving closer than social convention would recommend.

"Hello, Pearl," Mrs. Harroway said, meeting the brunette's green eyes evenly.

Walter gaped as Pearl dipped her face down to drink a kiss from his mistress' full lips. Mrs. Harroway accepted the gesture with a compliance that was more than courteous. He saw her mouth writhing under the brunette's as it had writhed under his. He set down his glass, afraid he would shatter it, and suddenly remembered the words of the Venus wearing furs:

"Through his passion nature has given man into woman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise."

He clenched his fist, and his nails dug bloody half-moons into his palm. His body thrummed with anger and arousal.

At long last Pearl stepped back and cast an appraising glance at him. Walter had seen men exchanging such looks, and it was clearly recognizable on this woman's face. The mingled triumph and amusement made the brunette far less beautiful. He stared back at her boldly.

"Pearl, this is Walter," Mrs. Harroway said calmly, as if nothing untoward had happened. Nevertheless, she was contemplating her mineral water with an air that Walter had never seen on her before. "Entertain him for a moment, won't you, while I powder my nose?"

Walter glared at the brunette, who smirked in response.

"I want jacket and tie off when I return," Mrs. Harroway ordered as she passed him. "And roll your sleeves up. Just before the elbow, if you please."

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered through gritted teeth, moving to obey her, even as she glided from the room.

Pearl tasted an hors d'oeuvre thoughtfully, her green eyes sharp as a cat's. "Ugly bastard, in't ya?" she concluded at last.

He removed his tie silently and consoled himself with the knowledge that he could choke her with the silk noose in mere seconds, if he really wanted to. But first he ached to know more. He chose to wait.

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. Her gaze raked Walter's figure mercilessly. "So what does she see in you?" Pearl mused. "Sometimes it's the shorter blokes that are better endowed. Got a giant prick, have you? Hmn? _Walter_?"

He folded his tie neatly and put it in his pocket, then started on his cuffs. Walter was itching for action, fuse lit and smoking, but his submissive emotional state hampered his rage. He belonged to Mrs. Harroway, and he would not embarrass his mistress by brawling with this...whatever she was.

_Maybe there is something to this passive resistance business, after all._

"Don't talk much, do ya?" An evil grin lit Pearl's face. "Oh, I see. You save your tongue for other purposes, dontcha? I bet you're regular artful at tipping the velvet."

_'Tipping the velvet'?_ Walter frowned his incomprehension.

Pearl stuck the tip of her tongue out and waggled it obscenely.

He felt hot blood rush into his face. Had Mrs. Harroway allowed this tribade to perform that most secret and intimate of acts on her, when she had never so much as permitted him to see one of her breasts unclothed? He took a step back, fingernails grinding into the bloody grooves in his palm.

_naked before him long dark hair a waterfall spread out across the bed strong thighs parted in welcome_

"I would appreciate it if you did not talk about my mistress in that way," he said quietly but firmly.

_her earthy smell filling his nostrils as she opened her womanhood to his kiss_

"What way?" Pearl inquired, giggling. "She's _begged_ for filthier things than have ever crossed _your _mind, duckie."

_moaning, 'please, Walter'_

"I would shut my mouth, if I were you," he growled.

"Or else wh-"

"It's a strange fact," Mrs. Harroway interrupted, appearing in the doorway, "but true: certain dogs are more loyal than others."

Taking Walter's hand, she led him out of the kitchen. He slung his coat over his shoulder and did not look back. They moved down the corridor to the party, but she pulled him aside at the last minute into a secluded spot by the stairs.

"You saw how Darcy treated his wife?" she hissed urgently.

He blinked at the _non sequitur_, but responded in the affirmative.

"And she could have stopped him at any time, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So you tell me, my darling." She cupped her hand around his cheek and stared into his eyes. "Who is the master, and who the slave?"

His heart stuttered. "I...I think I understand, ma'am."

"I am as much yours as you are mine, dearest boy."

Walter's eyes grew big, and he nodded, not trusting his voice. She leaned her forehead against his. Her fingers stroked his vest, exploring the muscles underneath.

"Now, let's go back to the party," she whispered. "I want to play with my toy."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: MATURE content, including some pain play. Also: lesbian drama. This chapter sucks, but it was kinda fun to write. But 16 will be sweet. :D

*****

She led him into the front parlor, where two sofas faced each other over a coffee table. Ignoring the couches, however, Mrs. Harroway settled onto the window seat. From this spot they had a clear view into the dining room, and Walter could see that Darcy had yielded the floor to the chubby black dominant whose submissive was bound in the Japanese style. He was demonstrating his techniques on another woman. Walter squinted and realized that it was Darcy's slim blonde. The skin of her chest and belly was covered in welts, but she tilted her head back ecstatically as the black dominant bound her.

"Rope slut," Mrs. Harroway murmured softly; it was a term of affection, not a pejorative. She took his jacket and laid it on the cushion next to her. "Shoes and socks."

Walter crouched to bare his feet. Then he knelt by her. She cupped his chin in her hand and stared down at him thoughtfully.

"What shall I do with you now, my darling?"

"Anything you want, ma'am," he whispered, happy to have her full attention.

"April, do you mind if I punish Daphne in here? She's being awfully insolent."

Walter turned his head slightly to see an older man frog-marching the saucy maidservant into the parlor. Clearly a dominant, the man was cadaverously tall and thin. His white hair was combed into a distinguished pompadour. Daphne winced as he flung her onto the sofa nearest the hallway.

"Not at all, David," Mrs. Harroway responded politely. She raised her eyebrows at Walter in surreptitious amusement as their host bent his submissive forward until her palms rested on the sofa cushions.

"Anna told me that you brought a submissive tonight. This must be he." Their host turned his leonine head, blue eyes flashing, to regard Walter. "I suspect that he would like to watch, April. Do let him."

Smiling, Mrs. Harroway lifted her chin to indicate that Walter might turn himself for a better view of the proceedings. When he had first begun this madness with her, kneeling for a long time had taxed his legs incredibly. Now his muscles and joints were more accustomed to the posture, and he was able to swivel with little difficulty. When he settled himself, he saw that David had lifted Daphne's skirts and was unfastening the two garters on the backs of her long thighs. Walter swallowed. He felt Mrs. Harroway cross one leg over the other; her dangling toe prodded his back lightly. He straightened his back, returning the gentle pressure.

David crossed the parlor and disappeared around the half wall into the dining room. He was clasping the handle of a wooden paddle in his right hand when he re-entered, shrugging out of his suit coat. Walter knew that Daphne had seen the paddle; her body trembled with the force of her breath. David grabbed the waist of her panties and tugged them down to her thighs. Walter looked away from her nudity, but Mrs. Harroway's foot nudged him until she was satisfied that he was again watching Daphne's rear end.

"Fifteen," David barked. "Count down."

He did not wait for a reply. He swung, and the paddle collided forcefully with Daphne's fleshy buttocks.

"Fifteen!" she gasped, her body jolted forward.

David hit the same reddening area.

"Fourteen!"

Walter grimaced in sympathy. His traitor body, however, was responding to the scenario. Daphne looked quite desirable in this position, erogenous zones exposed, garters and stockings in disarray. Dismayed by his own reaction, he felt his member swelling as the girl counted down for her master. Her panting exclamations only increased his arousal.

"Eight! Seven! Six...oh, please, Daddy, stop!"

_Daddy?_

Walter whirled around to look at Mrs. Harroway, his face a mask of horror. She pressed her full lips together and shook her head slightly. Grimacing, he turned back.

_A game then. Just a game_.

"Do not speak out of turn again," David was saying, "or I'll give you five extra." He thwacked her decisively.

"Five, sir!" Daphne sobbed into the sofa.

Walter's attention was drawn by a movement to his left. It was Pearl. She was standing in the doorway to the dining room. Gaze fixed on Mrs. Harroway, the brunette dropped deliberately to her knees. Walter caught Mrs. Harroway's beckoning gesture out of the corner of his eye. He bristled at the summons, indignation rising in his throat. Pearl leaned forward and crawled across the room, slinking between the coffee table and the other sofa. David continued his punishment of Daphne without interruption. It was possible that he did not even notice the slim woman passing behind him.

Pearl settled onto her knees on Mrs. Harroway's other side, ignoring Walter's death glare. She ducked her head submissively to the tiny woman. A small hand presented itself; Pearl clasped it in her own long fingers and kissed it passionately. Walter's lip curled in disgust.

"Two...one!"

Walter heard the paddle thump to the floor and looked up at David. The older man was undoing his pants, and Walter watched in amazement as their host freed a sizeable erection and plunged it into Daphne. Pearl was giggling at his reaction, but Walter could not close his mouth. Then Mrs. Harroway's toe dug into his back, and he slammed his jaw shut. David, meanwhile, was screwing his submissive with fierce intensity.

"Oh, yes, Daddy, I'm so sorry. Yes," she whimpered.

A few of the guests in the dining room were peering through the doorway at the proceedings, David's wife Anna among them. They cheered their host on and clapped when David slammed one final time into his mistress, groaning. He waved a regal hand to acknowledge their applause while buttoning himself back into his trousers. He popped Daphne lightly on the hip, and she tripped off in a surprisingly graceful manner, tugging her panties up as she went. David collapsed onto the sofa, sighing, and the crowd dispersed.

Walter turned himself back to face Mrs. Harroway. He scooted himself closer to the window seat so he might be nearer his mistress than Pearl and bent to kiss Mrs. Harroway's dangling ankle.

"Now, Pearl, you too have been insolent," Mrs. Harroway said in the clipped and instructive tone of a schoolmarm. "You know that I shall have to punish you."

"Yes, ma'am," the brunette answered, in such an angelic voice that the uninitiated might believe an evaluation of Walter's privates had never so much as crossed her mind, let alone her lips. Walter, however, was not fooled. He narrowed his eyes, refusing to look her way, and set himself to memorizing the strong curve of his mistress' calf.

"Might we press your paddle into service, David?"

"Please do, April," their host replied magnanimously from his slouched position upon the sofa.

"Walter," Mrs. Harroway said softly, flicking her eyes toward the wooden paddle on the floor.

He scuttled backward to retrieve the object and presented it to her grimly. He did not want to be paddled himself, but he sure as hell did not wish to yield Mrs. Harroway's attention to that evil creature.

"No, you misunderstand me, darling," Mrs. Harroway said, smiling. "I want _you_ to paddle Pearl."

It took Walter a moment to fully understand what she had said. Then he grinned. "Yes, ma'am!"

"Assume the position on the far sofa," Mrs. Harroway said to Pearl, who was gaping at them in horror. The brunette did not move immediately, so Mrs. Harroway barked, "Move, slut!"

Walter had never heard his mistress use such a term before, but to hear it directed at Pearl filled him with glee. The brunette scooted to obey. He rose and smacked the paddle lightly against his palm. It was, indeed, a solid piece of wood. Pearl glanced at him apprehensively under her arm.

"Trousers," Mrs. Harroway commanded.

Walter's hands almost went to his belt, before he realized that she meant not him but Pearl. The submissive unfastened her pants and dropped them to reveal a pair of men's underwear. Her backside was narrow and flat under the white cotton. Walter saw Mrs. Harroway uncross her legs and cant her body for a better view of the action. She raised her eyebrows and indicated Pearl's underpants questioningly. His nose wrinkled, and he shook his head.

His lady's mouth quirked.

"How many, ma'am?" he asked, taking his position on the far side of Pearl. He gripped the handle securely, stretching his fingers around the wood. Pearl was staring down; her necktie dangled on the cushion. He struggled to keep a straight face, but it was hard to contain his triumphant excitement.

"I'll tell you when to stop," she responded airily. "And make sure to hit only the fleshy part of her bottom, if you please, darling. Too high or too low, and you could damage her."

Walter rolled his eyes, but Mrs. Harroway lowered her dark brows in stern reprimand.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured humbly, acknowledging her instructions.

"Whenever you are ready, dearest."

A thrill of dark pleasure jittered through Walter as he struck Pearl for the first time. The impact rippled along her skin, and she emitted a very satisfying "oof". He looked up at Mrs. Harroway. She nodded for him to continue. Pearl grunted at the second blow and rocked forward. Walter struck a third time and wished that her backside had a little more cushion to it; her bony ass was ricocheting the force back up his arm. Nevertheless, Mrs. Harroway was watching him with great interest, and the expression on her lovely face sent blood flowing into his groin.

Another blow.

The cuff of his left sleeve was unrolling. Leaving Pearl in breathless suspense, he paused to tuck it back up, but not past the elbow. His mistress had specifically requested _below_ the elbow. He took his sweet time about the procedure.

"This one will make a good top," David laughed from the other sofa.

Mrs. Harroway smiled into Walter's eyes and fingered the diamond pendant at her throat. "Yes," she agreed softly. "I suspect he will."

Walter was startled by this statement. Was it a compliment? But he did not want Pearl to sense his confusion, so he paddled her twice in a row, quickly. She was not expecting it, and she had to brace herself on the cushion so as not to launch forward against the back of the sofa. He choked back a laugh and struck her again.

"You two-timing _bitch_!" someone shrieked behind him.

Turning, Walter was amazed to find a brawny woman of about fifty standing in the doorway to the dining room. The skirts of her dress were clutched in her beefy hands. Her face was purple with rage. The celebrants in the dining room had turned once more to watch what was happening in the parlor.

"You goddamned dyke, how _could _you?" the older woman bellowed at Pearl. "What are you going to do next: suck his dick?"

At this suggestion, Walter stepped away from Pearl with such alacrity that David sniggered. Mrs. Harroway was on her feet in an instant.

"Clearly there has been some misunderstanding, madam," she placated.

"'Clearly'," the woman mocked. She turned to Walter. "I want to know what you're doing with my sub."

Pearl straightened and pulled up her pants, eyeing the older woman warily. Mrs. Harroway gestured for Walter to join her on the other side of the parlor, but he stood his ground between her and the newcomer. Quill appeared in the doorway behind her. He lifted one languid eyebrow at the assembly.

"Madam, Pearl offered herself to me for play," Mrs. Harroway explained to cut off the brawny woman, who was waving her thick finger at Walter. "This is my submissive, Walter; he is acting according to my orders."

"She offered herself?" the woman asked dubiously.

Pearl began to scoot stealthily toward the hallway.

"Pearl," Mrs. Harroway asked calmly, taking the brunette by the wrist to arrest her progress. Her grip seemed light, but Walter knew the damage she could do. "Do you belong to this lady?"

Pearl hung her handsome head. "Yes, ma'am."

Walter let the paddle fall to the floor and grabbed Pearl's elbow. She struggled, but he hurled her roughly at the middle-aged domme, who dragged her into the hallway. Walter turned back to Mrs. Harroway.

"I suppose what you said about dogs is true, ma'am," he muttered.

Quill sprawled on the sofa next to David, who sighed laboriously.

"How tiresome if I find them fucking in one of my bedrooms."

Quill snorted. "I don't think the councilman will be best-pleased by that."

_Her husband_, Mrs. Harroway mouthed at Walter, who smirked.

"Now then, April," David announced. "Shall we repair upstairs? I don't believe you've seen my St. Andrew's cross."

Mrs. Harroway smiled coyly and put a hand to her breast. "Why, David, you do know how to make a girl's heart go pit-a-pat."


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Sorry for the long delay on the update. Damn our nation for gaining its independence! jk

I do not own Watchmen or Venus in Furs.

This chapter is rated M for pain play, some sexual situations, and discussion of war: Chapter 16, in which Walter submits...

******

Walter leaned gently forward into Mrs. Harroway's back as he stared at the giant wooden X. The young man called Hart was bound to the St. Andrew's cross, one limb restrained on each of the crossbars. He faced outward, blindfolded, and an unmistakable erection tented his Egyptian-style kilt. An older Asian man was curled around him, whispering intently in the young man's ear. The dom's hand disappeared under the back of Hart's kilt. Walter looked away uncomfortably, instead whispering in his mistress' ear:

"Andrew did not believe himself worthy of being executed on a cross like Christ's, so he requested that the device be modified. Thus, an X instead of a T."

"Very good, darling," Mrs. Harroway murmured. Walter could see the corner of her lips turning up in a smile.

Hart began rocking his hips back against the Asian man's hand. The muscles of his young thighs flexed rhythmically.

"Lovely," Quill sighed from Mrs. Harroway's other side. He fondled his tie idly.

"Earlier...when you said that I would make a good top...what did you mean, ma'am?" Walter whispered.

Mrs. Harroway leaned against him, resting her back on his chest. He snuck a daring arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck. She turned her mouth to his ear to answer him.

"I meant just that, dearest."

"But I'm a submissive, aren't I?"

"With me you are. There are some who truly do experience both roles; they are called switches. But although most people are either in large part dominant or submissive, they are not always _completely _dynamic. It may be that _you_ are mostly submissive. However, you might experience dominance with a different partner than me."

Walter scowled. "You mean like Pearl?"

"You enjoyed punishing her."

Hart was thrusting madly, his dark curls tossed back between the uprights of the cross.

"I enjoyed _hurting_ her. And I didn't want..." He trailed off, hesitant.

Mrs. Harroway frowned and turned to face him, completely ignoring the scene playing out on the cross. "What, darling? Tell me."

"I didn't want _you_ to punish her. I didn't want her to get all your attention."

Over her shoulder, Walter saw Hart shudder and seize. Moisture stained the front of his kilt. The Asian man removed the blindfold and stroked his chest soothingly.

"Well, you have my undivided attention right now," she breathed, black eyes glowing in the semi-darkness.

Walter's breath hitched. He glanced up at Hart, whose feet were being unbound. Walter bit his lip, eyeing the redness left on Hart's ankles by the straps.

"You want to put me on that cross, don't you?"

Mrs. Harroway nodded. With an implacable face, she removed Walter's arm from its position around her waist.

"Who's next?" David called cheerily.

"April, you must try it out, really," Quill urged, his gaze following Hart as the young man stumbled away from the St. Andrew's cross with the help of his dom.

"Oh, I intend to."

The measured calm of her voice sent chills rolling under Walter's skin. He felt himself sliding deeper into that submissive space.

"Strip to the waist, darling," she ordered him.

Walter obeyed, once again sensing her pleasure at seeing him undress. He knew the others were watching, but he did not care. The fine wool vest came off, then the starched white shirt. At last he pulled the undershirt over his head.

"My, my," Quill purred.

Walter bent to leave his garments in a neat pile in the corner, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room upon him. Mrs. Harroway smiled possessively and indicated the cross with a nod. Walter stepped onto the base, turning his head to confirm that she wanted his back. She nodded and gave him a light pat on the bottom so he would spread his ankles. He experienced a sudden feeling of unreality as she crouched to lock the leather restraints for his legs; it never seemed right that she should kneel for him. He raised his arms, but she could not reach the cuffs on the uprights of the X. David, long as a greyhound, assisted. The older man's touch did not bother Walter; it was his mistress' desire that the host should bind him. Then David stepped back with Mrs. Harroway to confer in low voices.

Walter shifted against the bindings, testing them, but found himself completely restrained. Mrs. Harroway had never tied his legs before, and the sensation of near-complete immobilization was calling the panic up from his belly. Taking deep breaths, he sent himself down. He let his head hang forward and allowed the whispers behind him to drift across his skin. His mistress would do with him as she willed, and there was no way he could prevent or change that. He studied the grain of the wood upright by his eye.

Suddenly she was stroking his back, her breath tickling his ear. "How could you ever think I wanted _her_ more, my darling? You look so beautiful like this, it breaks my heart."

Walter dangled happily as the soft warmth of her body pressed against him. Her hand snaked around his waist, and he shuddered when she dragged her short nails down his chest. Her lips closed around his earlobe. He gasped. She caressed his nipple, drawing it into a hard point of sensitivity. It felt like every drop of blood in his body was draining into his manhood. Her fingertips trailed down his taut belly and ghosted over his erection.

"Hmm," she purred. "You have my full attention now. But do you want it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he breathed.

"Do you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Walter felt a slim, hard object against his waist. He looked down to see a wooden switch. Mrs. Harroway was holding it there deliberately for his inspection.

_So be it_.

He relaxed against the restraints, yielding his body to her. The first blow burned a trail of fire across the flesh of his upper back. He clamped his mouth shut, lest any noise escape. The second one struck his shoulder blade, jarring the bone. He could feel the reverberation all the way to his toes. The first and second blows were still searing when Mrs. Harroway caned him again. Walter fought the rage and panic that was rising inside him. He was trapped, and she was hurting him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He heaved whistling breaths in and out of his nose. The switch fell faster now, as he had known it soon would. She was putting more and more force behind each blow; he could hear her panting with the effort. His upper back was one crackling mass of pain. He rattled his arms against the restraints.

"Stop struggling, dearest. Yield to me, or I will break you."

_Yield to me_.

Walter _had_ yielded! He had given her everything he possessed. What more could there be? What more could she want? He wracked his brain desperately in quest of the answer.

He bared his teeth, groaning, as the cane laid itself across a virgin patch of skin. Mrs. Harroway was not holding back anymore. Her full strength, formidable for a woman her size, was packed behind each blow.

_Yield to me._

What did she want? What the hell did she _want_?

Pain and frustration pricked his eyes as she stuck him again and again. The flesh of his back burned like fire. Walter was losing himself in the pain and the fear and the confusion. He was not Kovacs. He was not Rorschach. He was a piece of meat, dangling and dancing at the command of a queen. He felt tears running down his face. Hovering in that dark place of despair, he roared. The blows only came faster. He thrashed against his restraints, then bent his head forward into the vee of the uprights and bellowed, casting the agony out in sound waves. She struck the exposed knob of spine at the base of his neck, and the impact jittered down his backbone. It reminded him of the shattering whiplash he had felt as a child when his mother shook him. He began to sob, gasps heaving out of his chest. The violent weeping possessed his head and lungs, and he became one rudderless mass of searing, wailing, choking release as she struck him again and again, carving her love into his back.

Then the blows stopped.

Defenseless as a child wandering in the space between awake and asleep, he felt himself freed from the St. Andrew's cross and guided to a dark corner. There he collapsed against the wall.

"Well done, my darling boy," she cooed. Mrs. Harroway handed him a glass of water, which he gulped down obediently. Gentle hands dressed him; he was past wincing as the cloth dragged over his bruised back. Mrs. Harroway took his arm and guided him downstairs. He squinted his eyes shut against the overwhelming light of the chandelier, following her blindly. He donned coat, hat, gloves.

Then he smelled frosty air filled with tumbling flakes. The interior of a taxi: she was giving the driver her address. Like a good New Yorker, the cabbie said nothing when Walter curled onto the back seat and pillowed his head on Mrs. Harroway's lap. She removed his hat to stroke his red hair. He drifted as the lights of the city played over him. Neither of them spoke, although Mrs. Harroway hummed tunelessly.

A light crust of snow coated the sidewalk when they stepped out of the cab at her brownstone. Walter leaned against the cold stone railing while she unlocked the door. They peeled off their outerwear, then Mrs. Harroway led him upstairs to a spare bedroom. She turned on the hall light, but kept it dark in the room. Laying him on the bed, she helped him strip naked and tucked him up to the waist under the bedclothes. He lay facedown on the cool sheets, feeling weary and exposed as a newborn child.

"I'll get the salve for your back," she murmured, then padded out of the room on stocking feet.

Walter's mind was empty. It might have been thirty seconds or twenty minutes until she returned. He winced as her hands came in contact with the welts on his back, but the mentholated lotion quickly began its soothing work. The medicinal odor even opened up his sinuses, which were still swollen from crying. He took deep breaths and, under her gentle touch, melted into the bed.

At last Mrs. Harroway sat back. "I'm going to wash my hands and change clothes, darling," she said softly. "I'll be back in just a moment."

Walter felt her weight shift off the bed and heard the swish of fabric as she headed down the hall. Frowning, he heaved himself up to follow her. The faucet was running in the hall bathroom; she had not turned on the lights or shut the door. He leaned bonelessly on the doorframe, watching her rinse her hands. She looked up at him and knit her brows.

"Go lie down, my dear. I'm coming back."

He shook his head.

She bit her lip in a gesture that made her look painfully youthful. "Do you want to help me change?" she suggested.

Walter nodded eagerly, not sure whence the energy to do so had come. Mrs. Harroway took his hand in her warm, clean one and led him into her sitting room. He pulled down the zipper at the back of her dress and lowered the garment to allow her to step out of it. A full silk slip clung to her curves. She indicated a hanger on the door to her bedroom, and he hung the dress carefully, smoothing it out and zipping it back up. When he turned back, she was sitting at her vanity, taking the pins out of her hair. Worshipfully, Walter knelt behind her to watch as she released each dark sheaf of hair. He leaned forward slightly, yearning to bury his face in the fragrant waterfall. Her strong arm cocked to comb her hair, but he claimed the brush easily from her grasp and began to run it through her locks. He shivered to feel the harsh bristles whispering through her thick hair. Mrs. Harroway sighed, tilting her head back. He located a small knot and pinched his fingers a few inches above it so that he would not pull at the roots while he worked out the tangle. Then he brushed and brushed until her dark tresses gleamed.

"Thank you, darling," she murmured. With quick fingers she plaited her hair into a thick braid. When she had secured the end with a ribbon, she rose. Walter stood and placed the brush on her vanity. Mrs. Harroway entered her bedroom, and he followed at a respectful distance. She indicated a dresser drawer with one languid hand.

"Choose a nightgown for me, dear. I'm going to wash up."

As she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, Walter knelt, opening the drawer to consider its contents. He gave a low whistle. The collection of soft and frilly underthings drew his touch like a magnet. He plunged his hands into the fantasia of silk, lace, and ribbon. His mind fairly reeled at the possibilities.

When she emerged from the bathroom, her face was scrubbed clean and bright as a child's. She gestured for him to stand and led him back into the sitting room, where he laid the nightgown he had chosen reverently over the chaise lounge. She began to remove her full slip, and Walter hurried forward to pull the white fabric over her head. He clasped the garment to his face, inhaling the scent of heaven: silk, peaches, sweat, and arousal. She turned to regard him curiously over her shoulder, so he draped the slip around his neck like his measuring tape and knelt to unfasten her stockings. Her fingers toyed with his hair as he undid the garters and unhooked the belt itself. He drew the sagging stockings off with care, one hand pressed against her inner thigh to balance her. Her backside was curvy and naked under virginal white panties. The slip tumbled from his neck, but Walter did not noticed. He was trembling.

"Bra," she commanded casually.

He rose, almost happy to remove himself from the immediate temptation of her round bottom. Hesitantly, his fingers approached the fastening of her bra. Still peeking back at him, she nodded. He unhooked the closure, letting his palms smooth over the hot skin of her muscular back. She shrugged out of the bra and tossed it onto the chaise. Walter stared, memorizing the lines and colors of her flesh. Under her arms and over her shoulders he could see the swell of her full breasts. He held his breath.

"You're quite handy with a brassiere, Walter," she teased. "Nary a fumble."

He blushed. "My first job out of the home, I had to work with undergarments." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he willed them back. 'The home'. It dangled in the air, prickling like skin dried out from salt water. He bit his lip.

"Bring me my nightgown, darling," she whispered.

Walter knelt, grateful for the distraction of service, and crawled to the chaise to claim his choice: a long negligee of mocha silk, trimmed in cream-colored lace, with a long slit up the side. Mrs. Harroway clasped her palms over her bare breasts and half-turned toward him. He gasped at the ancient scar that crouched low under the side of her ribcage. She followed his eyes and sighed.

"Let's get you back to bed, and I shall tell you a story."

Walter rose and pulled the gown over her dark head. At the last moment, he turned his gaze respectfully away from her breasts, although he caught just a glimpse of light brown nipple against a smooth curve of flesh. She twitched her head, and he untucked her braid to let it trail heavily down the hollow of her back.

"You know that my father was Japanese," she began, turning out lights as she drew him back down the hall toward the spare bedroom.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered softly.

"He was in the army, stationed in Manchuria, when he met my mother." Mrs. Harroway tucked him into the bed, facedown once more, then lay on her side next to him, her lips not far from his ear. She was careful not to touch the welts on his back. "My mother's parents were missionaries from Glasgow, and they objected to the union, until my father agreed to convert. After they were married, my father left the army to work for the, some would say 'imperialist', civil service that the Japanese had established on the mainland. So, you see, I was born in Manchuria."

Walter snuggled closer to her warmth, inhaling her scent.

"As you may know, there was a great deal of...rancor...against the Japanese in that area during the years before the war broke out. I certainly don't intend to defend the actions of the Japanese army. But, regardless of my family's feelings on the subject, there were minor uprisings around the countryside against the Japanese."

He waited quietly, through a long pause, for her to continue.

"I...only remember...flashes of it. My parents had gone out for dinner and left me at the house of family friends. Japanese friends. The Manchurian rebels stormed the house and killed the whole family: parents and three children. I think they raped the mother and the older daughter, although no one has ever told me that explicitly. One of the rebels stabbed me, probably with a bayonet, and left me for dead. I almost did die. I lost my kidney on that side. As soon as I was released from the hospital, and it was weeks before I was cleared, my parents left for Scotland and then emigrated to the U.S. My brother Alistair was born in the internment camp. We had been released by the time Brian came along. So, you see, both my brothers were born on American soil." She sighed and curled tightly against him, brushing her lips against his cheek. "Have I put you to sleep, my darling?"

Walter shook his head in protest. "I want to know everything about you," he murmured.

"But not tonight," she said, smiling.

He burrowed against her and found his face only centimeters from the curve of her bosom. Her flesh was warm and fragrant. To his amazement, she raised herself up to slip the strap of her nightgown off her arm and bare one full breast. Then she adjusted herself until her arm tucked around his head, her nipple pressing against his lips. He drew the little bud gently into his mouth and was gratified to hear her encouraging hum of pleasure. Cautiously, he cupped her with his palm; her other, clothed breast weighted his hand with a pleasant heat. He did not dare suckle hard, but worked her nipple softly, exploring the texture with his lips and tongue. She stroked his hair languorously.

"You did so well tonight, my darling," she cooed. "Go to sleep."

Walter mouthed her for a few moments longer, then allowed himself to drift off as she sang a soft and tuneless lullaby into his ear. His last conscious thought was to recall the desperate words of Severin, embraced by his own Venus in furs:

"My love seems to me like a deep, bottomless abyss, into which I subside deeper and deeper. There is nothing now which could save me from it."


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: A short lemon is still a lemon, right? ;D

*******

Walter woke in the very early morning to find her curled under the covers next to him. He extricated himself carefully and padded to the bathroom to urinate. When he returned, the pale light that crept through the curtains illuminated her wide-open eyes.

"Is your back bothering you?" Mrs. Harroway murmured sleepily. She was already reaching for the salve, so he slithered back into bed and lay on his stomach. She hummed softly as she applied the lotion. He watched the folds of silk rustling against her skin. When she was done, she brushed her lips over his forehead. "Do you want an aspirin? A drink? What would help you sleep?"

He grinned and knelt up until he was on level with her chest. Daringly, he cupped one breast in his hand, leaning forward to kiss the warm flesh outside the lace edge of her nightgown. She laughed indulgently. He thumbed her hardening nipple gently. She leaned back against the headboard and sighed, salve-coated hands raised helplessly in the air. He flicked his tongue between her breasts, inhaling the warm scent of her skin. She arched her back in what he realized was a sign of welcome.

"Does this please you, ma'am?" he asked huskily.

"You want to please me, don't you, darling?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

She seemed to be weighing something in her mind as his hand slid down her waist to her hip; he could feel her panties under the nightgown. At last he reached the slit in her negligee, and he parted it to feel her skin, which was no less soft than the silk of the garment.

"How can I serve you, ma'am?" he encouraged, sensing an opportunity.

A tiny smile curved her lips. "Let me wash my hands, dearest. Then..." Her voice trailed off into quiet laughter as she slipped out of the room.

Walter watched her departure nervously, his stomach roiling with anticipation. Surely she did not want to beat him again? Not so soon. And she was tired herself. What on earth did she have in mind?

When Mrs. Harroway returned to the bed, she pulled him down over her, hands gentle but demanding against his chest and neck. He kissed her full lips deeply, excited to feel her mouth yield to him. His jaw relaxed so he could thrust his tongue into her. She twisted the fingers of her right hand in his hair, her left hand slipping down to stroke his buttock. He ground his erection against her hip and realized with a jolt of desire that her flesh was bare beneath the negligee; she had removed her panties. He wanted to part her thighs, gather the silk up in his fists, and push inside her, but his body refused to obey, like in some dream where his limbs struggled against a strangely-thick atmosphere to no effect.

As if she could sense his dilemma, she tugged his head back by the hair until his face hovered just above hers. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes were dark pools of controlled desire. "I have a better use for that mouth of yours, darling."

Walter grasped her meaning when she pushed him down to her hips and cocked her knees. Eagerly, he scrambled between her ankles and watched the silk glide to settle at the tops of her thighs.

_I bet you're regular artful at tipping the velvet._

Underneath the shock and biting lust Walter had felt at the gesture with which Pearl accompanied this statement, he had also experienced an odd feeling in his gut. Disappointment? Regret? Shame?

Why had Mrs. Harroway not asked this of him before? Should he have offered it? He had only a very hazy notion of the act itself, let alone the correct method of fulfilling it. Of fulfilling _her_. He ached to sketch in the details.

And underneath all this was one nagging question: had Pearl done this for her? Had Pearl done it _well_?

_I'll be damned if I don't please my lady better than that...that..._

He could not arrive at an appropriate noun to describe Pearl, but the sentiment remained the same. He would become an expert in pleasing Mrs. Harroway. And how did one become an expert in any task? Through exploration, experimentation, and practice.

"Ma'am," he said boldly, "may we turn the light on?"

She cocked her eyebrows at him in amusement, but one lean arm snaked out to switch on the bedside lamp. The yellow glow of the bulb illuminated what had previously been only a dark patch between Mrs. Harroway's thighs. He curled down on his thighs to study her. Her sex was fascinating: the most alien and entrancing thing he had ever seen. He pressed her inner thighs outward; obediently, she parted her legs further. His fingertips spidered lightly over the short black curls and slick ridges.

"Walter." Her voice was quiet but sharp.

He looked up at her face, startled from his examination.

"You're not a virgin, darling?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do I look so different from other women, then?"

He shifted uncomfortably. He thought of furtive gropings under clothes in the dark. Aloud he said: "I've never been with a woman who was quite so...patient with me."

Mrs. Harroway tilted her head curiously.

"Please be patient with me, ma'am. I don't know what to do, I admit it, but you've seen that I'm a quick learner."

Her eyes softened. "I did not expect you to be experienced, dearest. But I suppose I should have guessed that you would approach it so...scientifically."

"Then you'll forgive me if I'm clumsy, ma'am?" he asked hopefully.

She stretched her arms languorously behind her head, thrusting her breasts at him in a very pretty way. "You may explore to your heart's content, my boy." A teasing smile quirked her lips.

He bit his lip happily and turned his attention back to her sex. He parted the outer folds carefully and probed her slick flesh. His thumb slipped into her passage. At first, her quick intake of breath made him start back, but then he realized that it was not pain she had experienced. His member was much thicker and longer than his thumb, and the female body was made to accommodate a penis, was it not? Withdrawing his thumb, he inserted his forefinger slowly, gauging her reaction. Her hips tilted toward him. The scent of her arousal grew and intoxicated him. He pushed his middle finger into her, alongside his first, and her slick, textured flesh stretched around him.

As he studied her anatomy, marveling, his moistened thumb played idly over the swollen peak above her passage. To his surprise, she hummed encouragement. When he stroked the nub with intent, her body stiffened in a tension that he recognized. Recalling Pearl's crude tongue movements, he leaned in to lick the sensitive spot cautiously. Mrs. Harroway sighed with pleasure. He tongued the nub more confidently and laughed with delight at her ecstatic moans. This effect he had on her: it was more gratifying and wonderful than he had imagined in his fantasies. Her interior muscles squeezed around his fingers, so he began to thrust the digits in and out of her; the tight, wet heat made his erection ache. He explored her swollen button with his tongue, tickling it from every side, with different types of strokes. A startled outcry from her full lips indicated that he was on the right track. He focused on that magic spot, assailing her. The sense of power exhilarated him.

Walter had not been sure that women experienced climax, but now he was certain that Mrs. Harroway

April

_Naoko_

not only could, but was close to it: he felt her body unraveling beneath him. He licked and suckled her madly as she strained in desperation, the muscles in her little body rock-hard. Her nub was swollen taut as a drum, and her juices fairly covered his hand. Every nerve ending in his body begged him to plunge himself into her and twin their ecstasy. Crazy with need, he parted his own knees to fondle his erection; he was so hard that a few strokes would finish him. He massaged his foreskin, and a drop of fluid escaped.

"Yes, darling, yes!" she gasped.

His fingers and tongue worked furiously, and at last he felt her lose control. She made no sound, but her body froze for an impossibly long moment, hovering weightlessly. Before she could surface, Walter brought himself off, almost weeping with pleasure. He choked out his own ecstatic cry just as her fingers wiggled into his hair. He heard her low, dangerous laugh: she knew what he had done.

"Smart boy," his mistress purred. "I suppose you guessed that I would not have let you come afterwards."

Walter stared up at her in horror. Would she really have made him _wait out_ that aching erection? Her face told him the answer.

"I have the most wonderful punishment for you, darling," she continued. "But not until the morning."

He winced, knowing it would be difficult for him to sleep while anticipating that 'wonderful punishment'. He began to make conciliatory love to her sensitive nub with his tongue. She shrieked girlishly and pushed his head away, laughing.

"Do you think you can change my mind?" she teased.

"I want to try again, ma'am," he said miserably. "I want to do it better."

Mrs. Harroway drew him along her body until their faces were even, then stared into his eyes. "The reason that I can't stand for you to do it again right now," she said slowly and carefully, "is that your enthusiasm and...attention to detail...have reduced me to a quivering bundle of overstimulated nerve endings. Have no fear: you will find yourself between my thighs again all too soon, but, in the meantime, you must get control of that prick." Walter shivered at the plosive sound she made with her lips in forming the filthy word. "You will come when I want you to come, and not before. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Besides," she added, smiling, "I can't very well enjoy watching you climax when I'm busy myself, can I?" She kissed him then. It shocked him a little, since his lips were still covered with her slick juices, but this did not seem to bother her. She pulled away and planted a soft kiss on each of his eyelids. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, wanting to obey her, but he found himself buried once again in her soft lips. Their bodies tangled together, warm and exhausted, the silk of her gown dragging against his flesh, wetness still dripping from her center.

"Sleep," she commanded at last, guiding him onto the bed next to her. He settled on his belly, back suddenly aching again as his muscles flexed. She kept his left hand clutched to her breast. His tired eyes were drawn by the gold band that still encircled his ring finger.

He wondered how she would punish him. And if he would ever get to sleep in her bed.

"Sleep," she whispered, kissing his knuckles, and he obeyed.

A/N: Does everyone still hate poor Mrs. H? Come on, don't tell me you wouldn't make Walter do that too, if you could. ;p


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Harroway exists! I saw her at the Atlanta airport last weekend. She had short hair and was dressed for traveling, but she was the spitting image I have in my brain. It was creeeeepy! (And the Atlanta airport is creepy to start with...)

******

Walter jolted awake and made the mistake of rolling over. His back screamed in protest, so he sat up, wincing. Pale winter sunlight streamed in between the curtains. He was naked in Mrs. Harroway's guest bed, but there was no sign of the lady herself. He glanced at the clock on the bedside and clapped a hand to his forehead: it was almost noon. Stumbling to the window, he looked out. The street was encapsulated in a pristine layer of snow. The macadam had not yet been plowed, but a few brave souls were booting their way along the sidewalk. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, mulling over the question of his punishment.

He was still naked when he finally found Mrs. Harroway in the library, reading in a wingchair next to the fire. She looked fresh and clean in a trim shirtdress, although her hair remained braided. As he entered, she untucked her feet from beneath her, and he saw that her legs were bare. She slipped her toes into a pair of loafers. He knelt on the rug beside her. She smiled and tousled his already-mussed hair.

"Good morning, my darling."

"Good morning, ma'am."

"Let's get some breakfast in you, hm?"

She exchanged the book she had been reading for one on the side table and rose. Walter stared at her legs, frozen. Had she forgotten about punishing him? The notion inspired an odd mixture of relief and regret in his belly, which also signaled him that he was exceedingly hungry. She swished by him, and he rose automatically to follow her into the kitchen, where she indicated a place for him to kneel by the table. The curtains were drawn shut, so she switched on the overhead light. He gazed about him at the surprisingly cozy room: neat as a pin, but homey. Cherrywood cabinets and a yellow icebox. A cream and red dishtowel hung under the sink. She fastened a matching apron around her waist. Then she handed him the book she had brought from the library and plucked the kettle from the stove. "Read to me while I fix breakfast, won't you, dearest?" she asked sweetly as she filled the kettle under the faucet. Her kindly tone was making him nervous. He looked down at the book: an anthology of poetry. He found that there were several pages marked with tiny brass clips and opened to the first of them.

"There's no title on this one," he remarked curiously. "The poet is...e.e. cummings?"

"Yes, darling, go ahead," she encouraged, pulling a skillet from a drawer. She moved to the icebox to fetch eggs and bacon. Walter's mouth watered. He turned back to the poem and began to read aloud, stumbling over the bizarre punctuation and syntax:

"'next to of course god america i

love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh

say can you see by the dawn's early my

country 'tis of centuries come and go

and are no more what of it we should worry

in every language even deafanddumb

thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry

by jingo by gee by gosh by gum

why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-

iful than these heroic happy dead

who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter

they did not stop to think they died instead

then shall the voice of liberty be mute?'

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water."

"Again," she demanded mildly. While he read it a second time, faltering less frequently, the kettle whistled, and she poured the boiling water into a beautifully decorated teapot. She dosed one of the teacups on the counter liberally with milk and sugar.

"What do you think?" she asked when he had finished.

"It's nonsense."

"Is it?" A small smile curved her lips as she handed him his tea. He took a sip: it was sweet and milky and delicious. He looked down at the poem in his lap and gave it another shot.

"It's not proper grammar at all," he mused. "And I think he stole that bit about 'did not stop to think they died instead' from Tennyson." Mrs. Harroway's eyebrows flew up at this, but she made no comment. The smell of frying bacon rose in the air. "Not to mention all the lines cribbed from patriotic songs. But it's satirical, isn't it?"

"You tell me, darling."

"A satire of patriotism...?" he muttered to himself.

She removed the bacon to a plate and cracked eggs into the leftover grease. "Do you recognize the form? The poetic form, I mean?"

Walter took another sip of his tea while he considered this. He stared at the poem until the answer struck him, and he blinked. "It's a sonnet," he realized, somewhat startled.

Mrs. Harroway left the eggs to fry and leaned down to kiss him, balancing herself with one hand on the counter and the other on the table. His mouth welcomed her eagerly, and her eyes were glowing with pleasure when she righted herself again. "My clever boy," she murmured, returning to the stove. He beamed at the praise. "You've told me what your head says. Now: what does your gut say?"

"My gut?" he repeated, watching her probe the edges of the eggs with a spatula. "Well, there's no description of the man who's speaking, but I can clearly visualize him. That's impressive."

"Do you like the poem?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, ma'am. I think I do."

She brought one plate of food to the table and sat down in the chair next to him. "Put the book aside for now."

Walter frowned in confusion. Only one plate? Was this to be his punishment? Would she let him go hungry?

She cocked one dark eye at him. "And I haven't forgotten about your punishment, my dear." His heart plummeted. "But let's get some food in you first." Breaking off a small piece of bacon, she held it to his lips. He cautiously accepted the bite into his mouth. She smiled as he chewed. The meat tasted heavenly. She scooped a little egg onto her fork and offered it. He drew the morsel from the tines.

"May I have some tea, ma'am?" he asked when he had swallowed.

She nodded encouragement, and he raised his cup to take another mouthful of the sweet brew. She watched him, delicately placing a piece of bacon between her own full lips. When he set down his cup, she had another piece ready for him. He could not remember a time when food had tasted so wonderful to him.

_She fed me first_, he realized. It gave him a warm feeling in his belly that could not be explained by mere bacon and eggs. He relaxed into the rhythm, enjoying the unwonted intimacy of a woman feeding him. From time to time, he would ask permission to have a sip of tea. She would cup her off-hand under her fork when she held out a piece of yolk-slippery egg, wary lest the hot yellow liquid drop onto his naked flesh. At last she slipped a piece of bacon into his mouth, and he found that he was full.

"That was delicious, ma'am."

She stroked his cheek with her knuckles. "Are you all finished?" she asked tenderly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm going to wash these dishes, darling," she announced. "When I am done, I will go downstairs." By the look on her face, he knew she did not mean the dojo. "I will expect you to be there, ready for your punishment. There are towels and a toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom for you, if you would like to wash up in the next few minutes."

"Yes, ma'am." He rose and put his teacup in the sink. On a sudden impulse, he leaned down to pick up the book off the floor. "'Then shall the voice of liberty be mute?'" he wondered aloud, staring at the volume in his hands.

"Walter?"

"Ma'am?"

"Be sure to use the toilet if you need to."

Horrified and blushing furiously, he slunk out of the kitchen, headed for the upstairs bathroom.

To brush his teeth.

*******

Ten minutes later, he was kneeling once again on the cold concrete floor of the _other_ room, the left-hand room. The room his mistress might have called 'the dungeon', were she inclined to use such language.

He had cleaned his teeth and showered rapidly, wanting to be properly groomed for his lady. While toweling his hair, he had felt the slight ache of fullness in his bladder. He almost held it, just to spite her and her mysterious final command, but he realized how ridiculous this notion was. Nevertheless, he waited until he had combed his hair to relieve himself.

The basement was chilly, and his damp hair only increased the discomfort. He hoped that she would arrive soon. He would feel so much better once he knew what on earth his punishment would be. Trying not to think about it, he slipped down into his submissive space.

Her step on the stair roused him. "Stand here," she said with no prelude. He rose to obey, finding himself next to the school-bench she had used to crop him. Relief flooded through him; just a beating, then. His buttocks were unmarked, and he trusted her not to abuse his battered upper back. A spanking, perhaps, or a paddling. Nothing he could not handle.

She leaned toward him, and her fingers stroked him lightly, running over his skin. He sighed and let himself enjoy her touch. She dragged her fingertips down his belly until her hand closed around his member. Even in the chill of the dungeon, he sprang to attention, hardening under her slightest touch. It was slightly embarrassing, but his shame was outmatched by the feel of her fingers on him. She massaged him gently, and he abandoned himself to her.

"Why am I punishing you?" she asked softly, her breath hot on his neck.

He gulped. "Because I can't control myself."

She made a circle of her fingers to tug his foreskin back gently and drizzled her thumb around his exposed head. He started at the intensity.

"Too much?" she purred.

_She won't let you come she'll never let you not after last night oh god maybe she will maybe she won't stop maybe please please_

His member wept a pearl of fluid, and the tip of her thumb, now lubricated, slid more easily over him. She flicked her tongue against his throat. His mind immediately translated it to an image of Mrs. Harroway on her knees with her mouth, hot and wet, closed around him. He shivered.

"Bend over."

Walter grimaced: she would not let him come. He folded at the waist, leaning over the bench. What would she use this time? A crop? A paddle? Or perhaps just her hand? He heard her shoes tapping on the floor and the cabinet opening. Not her hand then. There was some sort of equipment involved.

The sound of her loafers again, and then she was stroking his bottom. He arched his back, offering himself up to her. Her knee came between his thighs to make a space, so he shuffled his bare feet apart.

"Say that you're mine," she ordered.

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours." He meant the words with all his heart.

Walter heard rubbery noises behind him, but he resisted the urge to turn his head. He tried to relax, awaiting the first strike. Suddenly something cold and wet probed his anus. He bucked forward, yelping with surprise.

"Be still," Mrs. Harroway demanded sharply.

He grasped the edge of the bench and gritted his teeth as she spread a cool jelly along the ring of his entrance. "Ma'am?" he begged; his voice cracked pitifully.

"Relax, darling. Take deep breaths. I will not harm you. I am lubricating you to the best of my ability, but you may still feel some discomfort. Just relax your muscles."

Walter was not entirely conscious that he had moved until his knees bumped against the bench when he stood upright. "Enough," he croaked.

****

A/N: To be continued (natch!)

"next to of course god america i" was written by the modernist poet e.e. cummings. I happened to think of it the other day, and it pitched some Walterness at me. Don't know why.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: I _agonized_ over the direction this would go, based on what I saw as basically three different paths the story could take from Walter's refusal in Ch 18. I decided to let him have a little conclave with the poets. I hope it works. Quite a long chap (for me). Kisses (or spanks) to all. -ab

******

"Enough," he croaked.

Mrs. Harroway's voice chilled him with its precision, her words dropping like icicles from a roof: "You wish to dissolve our contract?"

_I do. _

But his throat clenched, and he started toward the stairs silently, legs pistoning like an automaton's. The air seemed suddenly very thin, and he struggled to draw breath. He could not recall ever feeling so out of control.

Stepping into the little hallway, he stared through the doorway of the _dojo_. It was dark inside, but he could see himself shadowed in the mirrored wall by the hallway light above him. Redheaded, pale, naked. Scuffed knees. If he could see his upper back, it would be a tapestry of welts and bruises.

His foot found the first step of the stairs. He paused, somehow unable to lever his weight forward and climb. So much of judo, he had learned, was about gravity, about serving that inexorable pull.

_Then shall the voice of liberty be mute?_

He would find another way to improve. Rorschach was strong, and he would find another way.

But now he must climb these stairs and dress in suit and gloves, the presents she had given her whore. Then march through her front door, head held high, into that frozen wasteland outside, where he would be Rorschach, and he would fight, and he would win.

Vincero.

It took him a moment to identify the sound behind him as a muffled sob. Her tears inserted a wedge into his chains, and, sensing weakness, he strained against his bondage. She was only a woman, like any other.

_Oh, you are men of stones. Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so that heaven's vault should crack._

Walter reached for the banister, confident that it would help him lift his heavy, heavy legs onto the stairs. The freedom she had offered was crushing him, and he could scarcely breathe. Why was he not sinking right into the floor? His feet felt like lead. But that was not right, because lead meant hatred, Cupid's lead arrows inspired _hatred_, and it was not hatred that weighed him down.

Gold, then. Gold arrows for...

His feet were heavy with gold.

No, not his feet.

His hand, resting on the banister. The gold was on his hand, a little band of it that encircled his third finger, where the ancients believed that a vein ran all the way from the hand to the heart. He slipped the band over his knuckle and felt all the atoms of the world pressing against the vacuum where it had been. He replaced the ring, shielding himself from the void. No gift for a whore, that ring. His hand returned to the banister, and he heard gold clank against wood.

_Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,  
be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang._

Stiff as the Tin Man, he returned to stand in the doorway of the dungeon. His fingers gripped the doorframe so hard that his knuckles went white. She was kneeling on the concrete, her back to him. Her shoulders were shaking. She had pulled the skirt of her dress up to cover her face.

_Be – and yet know the great void where all things begin,  
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,  
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent._

_To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb  
creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums,  
joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count._

"Naoko?"

She took a shuddering breath, and her skirt fluttered down onto her lap. She spoke, in a surprisingly strong voice: "If this business between us is over, then you must go. Now."

He leaned against one side of the doorframe and peeked around it at her. The air seemed richer in here. He sucked it in greedily. His body felt like it was unraveling. "And if it is not over?"

"Then you must submit!" she declared, smacking the hard floor with her open palm.

The unwonted violence of her action startled him. His mind was able to evaluate the visceral way in which her rage affected him, yet he could not prevent the emotional reaction (_rage? terror? triumph?)_ that juddered through his body. He grabbed the doorframe and shook it ferociously, like a gorilla rattling the bars of his cage. Her face turned to him in profile, and the low lights sparkled on a tear as it slid down her cheek. Her chest rose and fell spasmodically, her breath hitching. She waited.

"There are _some_ things..." he tried. His fingernails dug into the wood. "What you intended...it was not a natural act."

Her laughter, low and cruel, disappeared into the thick curtains on the walls.

Walter could still feel the lubricant sliding between his buttocks as he took a step forward into the room. He was trembling. "Did _he _ever let you do that?" he demanded.

"Who?" She turned another forty-five degrees, like an owl, her brows knit. "Did _who_ ever let me do it?"

"Your husband!" he bellowed, though raising his voice to her felt like ripping a page from a sacred text.

She cocked her head dangerously, a slight movement that reminded him how deceptive her tiny form was. He knew that when she fought, she fought to win. To kill. Her fingers twined in the folds of her skirt. "James was not my submissive," she enunciated. "I have never had another submissive. Only you."

Walter stumbled backward, letting his head tilt to rest against the wall. The nap of the velvet curtains welcomed his flesh, stuck to his hair. He could not look at her.

"I suppose my inexperience is the reason I misjudged you so gravely," she continued. He could not read her tone. "I thought I understood you. I thought I could push you a little further. But you had already reached your limit.

_My limit, _he thought, staring at the ceiling._ Was that my limit? Is that where white meets black?_ He looked down at the tools she had laid on the bench: a tube of lubricant, a condom, and a rubber instrument whose purpose would be immediately apparent even to a member of the most primitive society on earth. She had wanted to _fuck_ him with that thing.

_She wanted to fuck me with that thing_, he repeated to himself, turning the words over in his brain like cat's-eye marbles. _She wanted to fuck me_.

He marveled suddenly at how ludicrous it all was. Rorschach had overcome five men singlehandedly, not two days ago. Five _large_ men, three of whom had been carrying guns. He had faced them without blinking, his body waltzing toward and around them unhesitatingly. This woman who knelt here, tears glittering on her face, had taught him some of the steps to that dance.

And now he found himself nonplussed by a small, synthetic cock.

He wanted to laugh.

Instead, he crouched behind her and lowered his forehead to the triangle of his hands. Kowtowing.

_Be – and yet know the great void where all things begin,  
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,  
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent._

Still bent in obeisance, he declared: "I have not yet reached my limit, ma'am."

He heard her breath and the rustling of her dress, much closer than before. There was a long moment in which Walter projected himself through the floor, willing her to see how low he wished to bow. Then she sniffled, a sound at once precious and terrifying to him.

"So you wish to continue according to the terms of our pact?" she said, her voice clear and strong.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You do this willingly and without reservation? You consent?"

"I consent, ma'am."

Her little warm hand came to rest on the back of his head. He restrained a sigh of relief at her familiar touch. Her fingers twined gently in his hair. That terrible energy steamed off of him. They remained in that position for long minutes, their breath pattern gradually synchronizing. There was only the cold of the floor below him and the warmth of her body above him.

She would take him back. The freezing, wasting solitude could wait a little while longer.

He relaxed into that place inside himself where he was free.

At last she spoke: "Walter."

Hearing his name, he raised his head ever so slightly to push back against the touch of her hand. _Naoko_. His lips formed the word silently, invisible to her. He wanted to call her name again, in better circumstances.

"Know that if you withdraw again, you must leave forever. You may not return in this way a second time. I will not be manipulated. No!" she said quickly, interrupting his protest. "I do not mean to suggest that you were intentionally manipulating me today. But no dominant appreciates being topped from below."

"I understand, ma'am. But..."

"Yes?" she asked imperiously.

"...would you like to proceed with my punishment?"

Her fingers tightened in his hair. "It is a fine line between anticipating your dominant's desires and dictating her behavior. Be careful to know the difference."

"Yes, ma'am."

"At any rate, we will proceed with your punishment. But in a few moments, when I am less...agitated. Take up your position on the bench, and wait for me there."

"Yes, ma'am," Walter said, jumping to obey. He needed to show her that he was strong enough to submit. That he was hers.

When he was bent forward once more, her fingertips trailed over his lower back, her hands finally molding around his buttocks to squeeze them. He allowed himself a hum of pleasure.

"It is an important lesson to learn, darling." He shivered at the endearment, realizing that she did not use it lightly. "A dominant should never administer punishment when agitated. Anger is not the root of the suffering I give you. So never when enraged, or inebriated, or impaired in any other way."

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, dearest?" She was kneading the large muscles of his backside in such a way that he felt his lost erection returning.

"Last night, you called Pearl a 'slut'."

"I did," Mrs. Harroway agreed.

"You've never called me such a thing."

He could hear the smile in her voice when she replied: "'Slut' would not be remotely apropos for you, my boy."

He blushed, remembering his avid exploration of her sex in the early morning hours. He had been a slut for her. The memory sent even more blood rushing to his member.

"But you meant _any_ pejorative term, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Pearl enjoys such things," she sighed. "She wants to be humiliated and called filthy names. But you..." Walter gasped as she ran her tongue up the lower half of his spine. Her braid tumbled over her shoulder to smack his rump with a pleasant thud. The sudden attention sent him tumbling downward into submission. "You require more tender handling. It's what you want. It's what you need."

"Yes, ma'am. You know what I need," he assured her.

She said nothing for a moment. Then she probed his upper back gently, "Does it pain you?" she asked.

"Just bruises, ma'am. They will fade."

"Hm," she murmured, almost regretfully. "I shall return."

He heard her steps departing. He breathed in and out, letting everything go. Pride. Rage. Jealousy. Fear. Each exhalation put another emotion to flight. When he was totally calm, he was ready to focus on the punishment he would take for her. She had told him to relax, and he experimented with this principle of relaxation, flexing and releasing the muscles of his rear entrance. Oddly, his erection did not deflate. In fact, it jerked excitedly when he heard the sound of heels on the stairs. He cut his eyes cautiously to the side as she re-entered the dungeon, wearing the white leather corset that had brought her to him in the first place. The black suede skirt hugged her hips; her legs were delicious in stockings and high heels. She had piled her dark hair on top of her head. A vision flashed into his mind of her, attired this way, possessing him with that damned rubber cock. To his surprise, the image aroused him no end.

Mrs. Harroway said nothing as she lubricated him for a second time. He took deep breaths, allowing her fingers to penetrate him ever so slightly. There was nothing else he had ever experienced to which he could compare the sensation.

"I'm going to use my fingers first, to stretch you a little. I'm putting the prophylactic on my fingers so I do not scratch you with my nails." Her voice was soft and calming. "You trust me, don't you, darling?"

"Yes, ma'am." He did trust her. He knew that she had spoken the truth on that day he had signed his soul over to her: she might hurt him, but she would never harm him. He understood that now, in his very bones. He canted his hips up to give her better access. When her finger entered him, ever so slowly, he grimaced. The lubrication helped the rubber slip in easily, but it burned nevertheless.

"Breathe, handsome."

'_Handsome'_? Melting under the praise, he realized that he had been holding air in his lungs, and he exhaled, then inhaled. Exhale, inhale. He drew her into him along with the air. Her finger penetrated to a depth where there was no discomfort, except for that burn in the outer ring of muscle. He winced but kept breathing when she added a second finger, carefully. Her fingers pulsed gently in and out. It almost felt...

"You're doing so well," she purred. "It excites me, you know, to see you take it like this."

"'Excites you', ma'am?" he breathed.

She laughed. "It arouses me sexually," she clarified teasingly.

Walter's eyelids fluttered shut with the sudden rush of passion that seized him. He _excited_ her. His body. His submission. Him.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, my dearest?"

"May I...when my punishment is over, I mean...may I...?"

"What?" she asked mildly.

He did not know how precisely to express what he wanted. He groped for the words. "May I pleasure you...with my mouth? Like I did earlier? I think I could do a much better job this time."

She was silent for a long moment, during which he began to fall under the spell of her gently thrusting fingers. His erection showed no sign of flagging, especially since his mind had raised the prospect of having her sex in his power again. Suddenly she withdrew her fingers, and he felt shockingly empty. He heard her step away to the cabinet, and he listened earnestly, but he could not figure out what she was doing.

At last she returned to her position behind him and spoke: "You know what you must do. If I let you please me."

"Yes, ma'am. Control myself. I swear I can do it." His member throbbed rebelliously, even as he spoke.

"Oh, I know you can do it, darling, because I'm going to give you an incentive." The cheerful lilt of her voice unnerved him. He felt buckles and leather straps on his hips. She was fastening some kind of contraption around his waist and thighs. "This is a chastity belt, of sorts. But instead of keeping pricks _out_..." She slapped his buttocks with a metal ring that was attached to the harness. "...it keeps pricks _in._"

Walter's jaw dropped as he grasped her meaning. He felt her lubricating his anus again, and he took a deep breath. She stroked his buttocks, calming him. Then he felt a rubber tip probing his entrance. He was prepared this time, though, so he knew to expect the discomfort of the plug breaching the outer muscles. She penetrated deeper, and suddenly the rubber phallus slipped fully into him. He felt the cold metal of the O-ring against his sensitive skin. She had affixed the plug to the harness via the ring; it would remain inside him even if he moved or tried to press it out. He wrinkled his nose.

"It sort of feels like..." He hesitated.

"Like having a bowel movement?" she finished, laughing. "But not quite, hm?"

His embarrassment reminded him of how she had encouraged him to use the toilet. But it was true that this procedure would indeed have been uncomfortable if his bladder or colon were full. He shifted his hips to see how the plug felt when he moved: full and definitely noticeable, but not unpleasant. She adjusted the straps on the harness until it was suitably tight.

"Now," she announced, "I'm going to leave that in for the time being. Can you guess for how long?"

He blushed to say it, although he supposed that, under the circumstances, he should not be so coy. "Until I can make you climax, ma'am?"

"Clever boy." She stroked the tender insides of his thighs. "And if you fail to control yourself, it will stay in much longer. I'm willing to start you off easy. Shall we say...two hours?"

Walter's stomach flopped over at the threat. On the other hand, her words suggested that she was willing to let him stay with her today. The thought made his stomach flip back the other way. She could plug every hole in his body and maintain his balls at the point of busting, so long as she kept him by her a little longer.

"I understand, ma'am."

Taking his hand, Mrs. Harroway stood him upright and led him to one of the other odd pieces of 'furniture'; this one looked a bit like a dentist's chair. He walked awkwardly, the rubber phallus interrupting the natural movement of his pelvis. She smiled indulgently at his obvious struggle and sat in the chair. He blinked when she drew a metal stirrup from either side of the inclined bench. She directed him to kneel between her thighs, and he obeyed eagerly, watching with delight as she propped one high heel in each of the stirrups: she wore no panties under her skirt and garterbelt. He pushed her skirt up to her hips, inhaling the mix of fragrances that was purely her, and turned his face to nip inquiringly at one garter. She shook her head: leave them on. He ran his hands over her stockinged legs, enjoying the feel of her warm body under the lingerie. Her sex was at the perfect height, right on level with his face, and he could see how slick her secret flesh was. This visual evidence and the now-familiar scent of her arousal inspired a conditioned response in his loins. Even the sensation of the plug inside him was starting to excite him.

Walter remembered exactly the spot that had sent her over the edge before; he was, after all, a quick learner. He moistened his lips and leaned in to stimulate that special place with his tongue. He was gratified to hear her cry out, but then her fingers were knotted in his hair, tugging his head away. She was laughing. He stared at her, shocked.

"I thought that was right," he protested. "I thought that was the place, and-"

"Darling boy," she interrupted him, cupping his chin. She was still trying to get her giggling under control. "You can't just dive in! You have to...finesse it a little bit. You would find it rather _bracing _if I suddenly pulled back your foreskin and assaulted your head without any prelude."

He understood her point exactly, but the image of her 'assaulting' his erection was very distracting. Despite his promise to control himself, he experienced an overwhelming urge to stand up and plunge himself into her slick passage. Before his thoughts could proceed any farther down that avenue, he leaned forward to 'finesse' her. He parted her folds with his fingers, stroking the soft flesh under her dark curls. She let her thighs fall open a little more to allow him better access. His tongue darted out with tiny, tentative licks, traveling quickly and without warning from one point to the next. Her hips tilted eagerly upward in response. He teased her like that for long moments, enjoying the game. It thrilled him to keep _her_ in suspense, for once.

Soon her legs were trembling with tension. Every time he touched her she gasped more and more desperately. At last he judged that it was time to let her have what she wanted. She cried out with shock as his tongue dragged, full and languorous, over her swollen nub. He chuckled, settling down on that special spot again. She grabbed onto the top of the bench and arched her back.

"Walter," she moaned, and his erection stood to vigorous attention. He wondered what it would feel like to have her slick passage tensing and shuddering around him, to feel her breath gasping his name into his ear. His hips began to rut the air deliriously, and he was startled when the motion rubbed the plug against something inside him that hummed with pleasure at the stimulation. A groan escaped his mouth as he tongued her.

Suddenly she canted her pelvis at an impossible angle, stretching herself taut on the bench. He assailed her nub, spurred on by the warmth that was unfolding in his own belly. Then she shrieked, a feral noise that sent a purely male thrill coursing through his veins. She froze, riding the wave of ecstasy, and held her breath. She shuddered violently. When she finally looked down at him, panting, he grinned and licked his lips. She returned his toothy smile and guided him up onto the bench.

"Turn around, darling," she gasped into his ear, her eyes still dilated with pleasure.

Her arms and legs embraced him as he sat in front of her, his back against her chest. As soon as his tailbone came in contact with the bench, though, he jumped: the plug was being shoved deeper inside him. She laughed breathily against his shoulder and slipped one small hand around his waist to grip his erection. When she began to stroke him, he almost dissolved right then. The pressure inside him and the tight circle of her fingers made his eyes roll back in his head. He ground his hips shamelessly against the twin stimulants. He could feel her sex still dripping on his buttocks. The ridges of her corset dug into the flesh of his back, and her left arm was a burning hot circle around his ribcage, locking him in her grip. He wondered feverishly if a fly felt such ecstasy when a spider pinned him in her long-limbed embrace.

"That's it, handsome. Just like that."

The sultry insistence of her voice made him cry out with need as he was driven closer to something that both enthralled and terrified him. Her hand moved faster, and he was jabbering, weeping, begging. His muscles twisted and pulsed as if with electricity. He feared that his spine would snap under the force of the ecstasy crashing toward him. She worked him fiercely, murmuring encouragements, and at last the climax whipped through his body like a tornado, a vortex of breathless pleasure that possessed him mercilessly, thrashing him into weightless chaff. It seemed to him that only her strong limbs kept the sucking pressure of the void from exploding him outward into a million shivering atoms.

****

A/N: I would love advice on this one, so please review, if you get a chance.

There were several poets quoted in this one, all of whom have been mentioned in previous chapters: cummings, Rilke, Shakespeare, and Puccini. There is also an allusion to the Roman poet Ovid, who tells us that Cupid carries two types of arrows: lead-tipped ones that inspire hate and gold-tipped ones that inspire...! (I can't even say the word yet, since Walter won't.)


	20. Chapter 20

**M** rating (as per usual), but this time for a very intense scene (D/s with shades of simrape). I think it's hawt, but I'm a twisted freak, so there ya go. Sorry if it's not your cuppa.

If you are not familiar with Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman", I encourage you to read it before you read this chapter. The poem is widely available on the interwebs; there's also a lovely version sung by Loreena McKennitt.

****

When she finally released him from her embrace, Mrs. Harroway guided him back to the schooldesk-style bench and bent him over it. Walter gritted his teeth in anticipation while she unfastened the complicated network of straps around his hips and thighs.

"Breathe for me, darling," she murmured.

He inhaled obediently. On his exhale, she withdrew the rubber object gingerly. He was momentarily stunned by the sensation of emptiness the plug had left in its wake. He felt...stretched. Would he remain that way? Horrified by the notion, he clenched experimentally.

"I want to look you over upstairs. I'll leave you to clean up. Come to my room then."

"Yes, ma'am."

When she was gone, he stumbled to the cabinet for a towel, as he had done on one previous occasion when he left a mess on the floor of this room. First he wiped the excess lubricant off his backside and thighs; next he mopped up his fluids from the concrete. At last his eyes fell on the rubber plug. His lip curled back in a tiny snarl as he snatched up the object and carried it, along with the towel, into the small laundry room at the back of the house. Using soap and water, he washed the plug in the utility sink. As he scrubbed, he became aware of a wonderful smell of cooking.

"Something smells delicious, ma'am," he told her when he finally found her in the master bathroom.

She was wrapping her short silk kimono around herself; she was clearly naked underneath. "I've put a roast in the oven for our supper," she said by way of explanation, smiling at him.

"You're spoiling me, ma'am," he answered, blushing.

She trailed a lazy hand over his bare chest; his skin prickled pleasurably. "Well, you're still a growing boy, dearest," she teased. Her eyes directed him toward the vanity. He saw that she had brought up the anthology of poetry from which he had read earlier; it lay near the sink, amongst her bottles and sundries. "Now let me have a look."

Reluctantly, Walter rested his hands on the marble of the vanity and bent forward. Her light touch on either of his hips commanded him to reduce the angle; he leaned down until his head was lower than the level of the countertop.

"There doesn't seem to be any damage," Mrs. Harroway muttered as she probed his backside.

Walter grimaced. It had been one thing in the basement, but this clinical examination of his rectum, under the bright lights of her master bathroom, was making him nervous. She clucked at him like a rider calming an anxious horse.

"Did you notice any blood?"

"No, ma'am," he answered miserably.

"Are you sore?"

"No, ma'am. Just..."

He shifted awkwardly, seeking for the appropriate way to describe the sensation. Mrs. Harroway nodded briskly and smacked him lightly on the buttock, signaling that he could straighten up. When he rose, she slipped her arms around his waist.

"I told you that you would fight me again," she murmured against his back. Walter opened his mouth to protest, but she chuckled, the vibrations humming through his skin. She peeked over his shoulder, her eyes impossibly dark above his pale skin. Her hair was still piled atop her head like a burnished onyx crown. "But look at yourself. Can't you see why I want to keep you?"

Walter grimaced and turned away. "I'm staying for dinner then?" he asked to cover his discomfort.

"You may stay as long as you like, dearest."

Walter would have liked to stay forever. But Rorschach had other ideas: he would not allow a second night to be wasted in slothful luxury. "I...I must go out tonight, ma'am."

"Tonight?" she repeated blankly, turning him away from the mirror to face her puzzled countenance.

He met her eyes boldly. "But I will return in the morning, if I may, ma'am."

Mrs. Harroway considered him for a long moment. He struggled not to twitch under her piercing gaze. Did she know? But how _could_ she?

"Yes," she murmured presently. "Yes, I supposed you must go, though I mislike it. But you will stay for dinner." This last was only half command; her voice rose at the end as if it were a question.

Walter kissed her in order to escape the intensity of her dark eyes. Mrs. Harroway's lips yielded, and she clutched him to her. The marble vanity was cool against his backside. She broke from the kiss briskly and, moving to the enormous clawfoot bathtub, sat on its lip. She indicated the book of poetry with her head. He turned to snatch it up.

"I'm running us a bath, and I'd like you to read to me while the tub fills."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I believe that 'The Highwayman' is marked."

Walter knelt on the cool bathroom tile at her feet, not unconscious of her smooth bare leg only inches from his face, and riffled through the book to find the correct page. He fought down a stupid grin of excitement at the prospect of a bath with his mistress.

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees..."

Mrs. Harroway nodded, so he continued. When she switched on the tap, he raised his voice a little to be heard over the rushing water.

"The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding-  
Riding – riding –  
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door."

The words echoed strangely in the bathroom, and, though it was still mid-afternoon, Walter thought of the grey skies choked with snow that surrounded the brownstone. There were not many gusty trees or purple moors to be had in the City, but the cold did whistle cruelly amongst the tall urban islands on days like this. Nevertheless, he smiled at the poet's description of the highwayman's love: Bess, "the landlord's black-eyed daughter" with her long dark hair.

Walter's own black-eyed mistress bent to lower the stopper, her face the very picture of angelic calm. As she listed to the side, her kimono rode up her thighs, and he almost stumbled, straining to take in the view.

"And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked  
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;  
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
But he loved the landlord's daughter,  
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,  
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,  
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;'

Walter paused briefly to look up at Mrs. Harroway. He could only return her wry grin and continue.

"'Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,  
Watch for me by moonlight,  
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,  
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand  
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,  
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)  
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West."

He dissolved into the poem, moved by the tale of the highwayman and his noble Bess. He supposed it was a love story, a genre he had little time for; but one of the most sad and beautiful ones he had ever heard. Mrs. Harroway switched off the tap just as he began the final verses, and the silence was deafening as he read aloud of the highwayman's ghostly return.

"I'm not a criminal, ma'am," he said softly, after a beat. The poem had been so lovely that it was hard for him to be angry with her, no matter what she believed about him.

Mrs. Harroway shot him an unreadable glance. "Then I shan't expect to find you dead in the street, with a bunch of lace at your throat."

Whatever response or retort he might have offered was quashed when she removed her kimono and stepped unselfconsciously into the clawfoot tub. He gawped at her body, full naked before him for the first time. "Venus at her bath," he murmured.

"I suspect that Venus was taller than I am. And she wasn't keen on mortals seeing her _au naturale_." Mrs. Harroway held out her hand. "Coming?"

Walter scrambled into the tub, rather less gracefully than he would have wished. The hot water sloshed, and her bare skin slipped delightfully against his as she settled him behind her, chest to back. He wrapped his arms around her ribcage and kissed her shoulder. A pleasant fire crackled in his belly to hold her like this, to be protective and dominant.

"We'll wash in just a minute," she murmured. Her long dark lashes fluttered closed.

She had woken up hours before him; he realized that she was probably exhausted. "Ssh, just rest," he whispered, cuddling her body against him. He felt her breathing slow. She hummed vaguely.

Warm, soothing water embraced him. Mrs. Harroway's body rested pleasantly against his chest. He watched her doze, his breath stirring her hair. He longed to plant kisses on her neck and stroke her damp breasts, but he feared waking her: she was regal even in her peace. He relaxed and allowed his heart to slow to the rhythm of her pulse. Walter could not remember ever feeling such bliss.

Bliss?

Or love?

Was this love? Was he in _love_ with Mrs. Harroway? He knew she did not love him. How could she love a slave? The very notion was ludicrous; it was against human nature. And yet...the way she cared for him and pleasured him. Even the way she gave him pain. Was it not love?

He struggled to recall the words of Severin's mistress from "Venus in Furs":

"I can easily imagine belonging to one man for my entire life, but he would have to be a whole man, a man who would dominate me, who would subjugate me by his innate strength, do you understand? And every man--I know this very well--as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Considering this perspective, Walter let his head fall back against the rim of the tub and hovered on the edge of sleep.

ooOoo

Rorschach slips into the house through a first-floor window. He has not perfected his lockpicking skills, and the expensive bolt on the back door proved too much for him. The thick curtains and plush carpet absorb the tiny sounds of his entry. He crouches in the shadows until his eyes adjust to the dark. He cannot underestimate his prey and will need all his wits and senses.

The house is silent.

Alert, lithe as a jaguar, Rorschach glides into the hallway and mounts the stairs, mindful of creaky risers. The corridor upstairs will prove more of a problem: it is too exposed for his liking, and the timbers groan with the aches of an old house. He pads along with care, but she is already awake, concealed behind the doorway to the sitting room. He manages to knock the pistol from her grasp. The weapon skitters across the carpet, and she retreats into the bedroom. Rorschach's foot absorbs the brunt as she tries to shut the door. He slams it open, stalking her. She lets him move closer, and he knows that it is a trap. When he is only a pace away, she sweeps her foot out in a reverse leg kick, aiming to drive her heel into the back of his knee and send him to the ground. He sidesteps her attempt and takes her off-leg from under her. She collapses onto the bed. He is atop her in a trice, pinning her with his weight. She has no leverage. His fedora tumbles off as she writhes beneath him, trying to work an escape.

When she wails in frustration, it is the first noise either of them has made. Rorschach is not concerned about the neighbors: the walls of these brownstones were built to create privacy for the wealthy.

He traps her thighs under his shins and presses her head to his chest, blinding her and neutralizing the strength of the blows with which she pummels his back. She has no chance at a joint lock in this position. Her hips buck up, but Rorschach maintains his mount. He unfastens the scarf from his neck and imprisons one of her wrists in a loop. She tries to bite his chest, but his clothing protects him from the worst of it. He forces her onto her back, and she uses the brief separation to butt him with her head. Rorschach groans at the pain shivering through his sternum.

"Naoko!" he snarls.

She freezes in shock, and he takes the chance to feed his scarf around the bedpost and tie her other wrist. Her dark eyes move unconsciously up, as if to confirm that she is in fact confined. Catalyzed by the sight, she hauls on the scarf with the weight of her upper body, but it holds firm. Her arched back thrusts her covered bosom up at him. Rorschach tears at the neckline of her silken gown, exposing her breasts to his gaze. Vainly she tries to cover herself with her elbows. He grasps each full mound in one gloved hand, and he does not miss her gasp of pleasure when the leather drags roughly over her nipples. His laughter is a bark of triumph. She responds by battering his head with the points of her elbows. He ducks his face into the cover of her neck and shifts his weight carefully until he kneels between her legs. She wraps her thighs around his waist. He wonders if the hems of his trenchcoat will scratch the soft skin of her legs. She locks her ankles together and lifts her hips to achieve full guard.

"So eager?" he teases, his voice a husky growl. He is sliding the skirt of her nightgown up.

"No!" Naoko moans. "Stop! Please don't!"

Rorschach nuzzles her throat, the latex of his mask both slick and sticky against her perspiring skin. "You know the word," he purrs. "The word to slow me down, and the word to stop me."

Naoko drives her chin into his shoulder, hard. His hands close, harsh enough to bruise, around the flesh of her thighs. She separates her ankles to kick down at his kidney with her heel. In that split-second breach of her defense, Rorschach seizes the inside of her thighs, pinning them apart. The scent of her arousal perfumes the air. He drags her body down the bed to straighten her arms out and render her elbows useless, then imprisons her right leg with his left. His hand strays to her sex. Naoko's hips roll, and she begs him, "No!", but he smooths the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs with his leather gloves. She moans languishingly. His fingertips trail up to find her center slick with juices. Roughly, he shoves two fingers inside her, and when her pelvis bucks up to throw him off, he only plunges deeper in. His thumb strokes her nub.

"You do like leather, don't you?" he hissed, laughing.

Her braid has come undone. Her dark hair thrashes about her shoulders as her head rolls. She is crying out incoherently. Rorschach watches her for long moments, his fingers moving in and out of her tight passage. His only regret is that he cannot feel her slick flesh through the leather of his gloves. Her muscles are taut with strain, not against him now, but with him. She rocks against his hand desperately.

Rorschach decides that it is time.

She wails with displeasure when he removes his hand, trailing her juices over her exposed belly. "What do you want?" Naoko sobs.

"Whisht. I'll _take_ what I want." He unfastens his coat and unzips his pants. He cannot read the expression on her face when he releases his straining erection, but she licks her lips. "And I think you want it too, don't you?"

Naoko rages under him, trapped in a red haze of frustration.

"Say it," he demands when she falls still.

She spits at him, but her saliva falls short and sprays his sex.

Rorschach laughs. "No need for that: you're already so wet." His voice is slow and taunting, like the serpent's in the Garden. "Now say it."

She murmurs something unintelligible. He cocks his head warningly. She is weeping. "Fuck me," she whispers.

"Unconvincing."

She writhes again, but this time it is seductive. Her eyes are open and dark, and tears lie upon her lashes like jewels. She is so beautiful. "Fuck me," she purrs. "Please, sir."

Rorschach takes a deep, shuddering breath. Incredibly, she manages to let her thighs fall even further apart. He drops his knee and positions his hips until his tip probes her entrance. Then he plunges inside her, and they both gasp. He changes his grip to the back of her knees and tilts her up. When he retreats and pushes back into her, his entire length penetrates.

"Say you're mine," he orders.

"I'm yours," Naoko sobs. "I'm yours, sir."


End file.
